


Cramer Street Cases (1881)

by Cerdic519



Series: The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [6]
Category: Bonanza, Laverne & Shirley (TV), Lewis (TV), Pocahontas (Disney 1995), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Beer, England (Country), F/M, Family, Friendship, Gossip, Inheritance, Justice, London, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Male Prostitution, Mistakes, Occult, Police, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Science, Slow Burn, Victorian, Wales, stagecoaches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: 1881HOPE AND GLORIA – Sherlock's terrifying eldest sister is not happyA BLISSFUL BONANZA – the inheritance of the PonderosaMODEL BEHAVIOUR – Mr. John Smith has a problemPER ARDUA AD ASTRA – the embarrassing Manor House affairA GREAT LITTLE ADVENTURE – stagecoaches and big menFAREWELL, MY SON – the Abbey School matterTHE RESIDENT PATIENT – who is spying on the dynamic duo?BRUSH STROKES – an argument over a broom!IN VINO VERITAS – there are rules about gossipBEER AND SKITTLES – poisoned beer and simpering ladiesPOST HASTE – a question of the wrong postmanAN INSPECTOR CALLS – everything is available in London!VANDERBILT AND THE YEGGMAN – occult dealings in North Wales?
Relationships: James Hathaway & Robert Lewis, John Smith/Thomas (Disney: Pocahontas), Laverne DeFazio & Shirley Feeney, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112249
Kudos: 5





	1. Hope And Gloria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AelinFelixFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AelinFelixFlame/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 1881. Sometimes a solution used to effect justice was arguably a little painful, or in this case when the solution chosen was downright cruel! A new sergeant upsets one of the consulting-detective's policeman friends, but is sure that he cannot be brought to justice – except that he has also offended someone else. A very unwise someone else to have offended.

As I always say, my ambition in undertaking any case is to effect justice. It tends to avoid complications if that can be done within the bounds of the law, but that is not always possible and sometimes I have to use solutions that some people might deem cruel. This small matter was one where said people might have deemed my solution at least fifty miles beyond cruel and still accelerating, as an unrepentant villain found that I was prepared to unleash a diabolical vengeance upon him that left him a broken man.

It really was unfair of Watson to, on reading that paragraph, ask which of my mother's stories I was about to refer to. As if I would ever use those to..... all right, I did later but that was quite different.

_That had better damn well not be a smirk from some medical personage in the vicinity! He knows how much I hate people who are smug!_

MDCCCLXXXI

One of the many things that I admired about my friend was his dedication to helping others, especially considering just how many of patients frankly needed little more than a good slap and being told to stop being such hypochondriacs. His dedication to duty was tested that first month of the year when a huge blizzard swept across southern England in the middle of the month. Not anything as bad as the one currently wreaking its way through the United States but still bad by England standards; in less than a day we had nine inches of snow and drifts of up to three feet. According to the news-papers the temperatures in London, which for obvious reasons was usually warmer than elsewhere in the country, had dropped as low as minus eleven degrees Centigrade (it was at best minus four for most of the month), and the gale that had come with it had done a whole lot of damage which had made getting around even more difficult. But my friend still managed to get first to his surgery then round a list of patients, although he did not make it back until late. I made sure that it was chocolate-dessert day which meant that my friend could have mine as well while I ran him a bath.

There was also the first of what would prove a series of Fenian (Irish republican) terrorist dynamite attacks, on an army barracks in Salford, Lancashire. Quite how killing an innocent young boy was going to advance their cause was something only the terrorists knew, although I was sure that when it came to it they would be eager to explain their motives to St. Peter just as they disappeared through that trap-door to Hell. In the meantime however that was another danger out there; my brother Carl had had Watson treat some of the men at his barracks one time when his own doctor had fallen ill.

I worried about my friend. And now every time I saw him, I was reminded of my stupid throw-away comment at the end of the Wriothesley case about a future Mrs. Watson, which for some reason stuck in my mind and refused to leave. What did I think was going to happen – it was hardly as if we would go on solving cases until one or other of us dropped, was it?

MDCCCLXXXI

One of the many policemen with whom I had a passing acquaintance with was young Constable Nelson Wood, a fresh-faced young fellow approaching twenty-five years of age when these events happened. LeStrade had hoped that he would go far in the Service and he had begun to rise up the ranks, if only from a third-class constable to a first-class one, but unluckily a reorganization of the police-stations had landed the luckless fellow under the leadership (I use the term in its loosest sense) of Sergeant Andrew Marsh. Worse, that numbskull's superior Inspector Mountstevens was utterly useless, the sort who only ever moved fast if there was credit to be had. Given my concurrent difficulties with the Metropolitan Police Service I had hoped that one or both of them might feature in the list of misbehaving senior officers, but they were both just boring and unpleasant men.

All right, when Moira has offered to 'arrange to find things', I had been tempted, but I was above such things. For now, at least.

To add to his cup of woes Constable Wood's wife had contracted an illness around the time of the move and, despite Watson's best efforts, had passed. She had left her widower a son and a daughter (the rather oddly-named Horatio and Horatia) to raise, neither yet five, and I may or may not have hinted to certain people that I might just resume my interest in the Service's senior ranks if the constable did not get the small payment that was his due in such circumstances. As in very soon. This was frankly a pittance; it was unsurprising that some constables had tried to go on strike last year over their appalling pay while there always seemed to be plenty of money for their senior officers. Thankfully the constable had received his cheque which, owing to the unseemly delay, had been trebled in its amount.

As my friend so rightly said, even the slowest tortoises get there eventually - _especially when they have a rocket shoved up in the right place!_

Like Watson my career put me in the strange position that it was usually a good thing if I did not see my friends as that meant all was well in their worlds. Hence when Constable Wood came round one day when the snow still lay deep on the ground outside, I automatically feared the worst. Mainly because accompanying him was a young lady who I did know, and whose presence made me glance instinctively (and in abject terror) at the door in case.... phew, all clear.

My niece Gloria all but marched the constable to the couch and sat him down before sitting herself next to him. Hope's daughter was not yet eighteen but there was a lot (far too much) of her terrifying mother in her, although from our few encounters thus far I knew that at least she had not inherited her mother's stentorian roar. Which was good; there were one or two panes of glass in the big window that I was not that sure about....

“Nelson here has a problem”, my niece said, looking at me expectantly. “I told him that you would fix it.”

I would have pointed out that most people in her position might have actually _asked_ for my assistance, but then this was Hope's daughter and my heart was still returning to normal in relief at my sister not being here too. Her last visit had needed three coffees before I had been able to stop shaking!

“What sort of problem, constable?” I asked.

“That idiot boss of his, Marsh, keeps deliberately losing the paperwork on his cases and making him do it again”, my niece said (I noted that the constable wisely did not even try to get a word in; as I said he was very intelligent and clearly knew a lost cause when he saw one). “You will stop him.”

“How?” I asked.

“Because this lummocks is going to be your nephew one day”, she said, looking disapprovingly at the constable who blushed under her gaze. “His appearance needs work, but he has already given up beer and he will be taking lessons to improve his reading. And doctor, I know you think I cannot see you sat behind me but you can stop smirking _right now!_ ”

Watson blushed fiercely. I sighed; this was Hope's daughter all right. Worse, my sister had five other children. The Lord really did move in mysterious ways at times.

She looked at me suspiciously and narrowed her eyes. I may or may not have gulped.

“It is quite simple”, she said exasperatedly. “Just fetch his superior round here and tell him to stop.”

I looked at her in confusion.

“I know of Sergeant Marsh”, I said, “and I have to say that he is not only as stupid as he looks but also as pig-headed.”

She smiled at me. It was the sort of smile that would make any man think seriously about life-insurance options. Even the constable, not the target of that look, shuddered.

“You need to tell me when he will be round”, she said. “The exact time.”

I was about to ask why when I suddenly got it, and stared at her in horror. If this woman ever turned to criminality, then London would be finished!

“Please tell me that you are not thinking what I think you are thinking?” I exclaimed.

“That an uncle of mine needs to use shorter sentences as well as brush his hair more?” she quipped, quite unfairly in my opinion. “Come, Nelson. We need to buy you some more clothes.”

The constable looked confused.

“But I've enough clothes, Miss Rhynes”, he protested.

“I know”, she said. “But that means you can take them home and change into them in turn, while I can watch you undress.”

He looked most alarmed but nodded fitfully. She stood and led him to the door, then paused to look across at Watson.

“There had better not be anything that looks remotely like a doormat in your notes, Doctor”, she said warningly. _“Or else!”_

And with that she marched the fellow off to his doom. Poor Constable Wood!

MDCCCLXXXI

Watson pouted when I told him that he would not be allowed any ear-plugs for what was about to happen. 

“If I have to suffer it”, I said, “then so do you.”

He still looked annoyed, so I resolved to get him a bar of chocolate once this was all over. I already had the seltzers laid in for us both, extra coffee to hand, and had reinforced the dubious panes in the window.

Luckily my recent encounter with the Metropolitan Police Service meant that a request for one of their sergeants to attend me at a certain time in Cramer Street was met without any objections. Fear may not keep some people honest but as the matter of my future nephew's bonus had showed, it certainly makes them move a lot more quickly than they might have otherwise done.

Sergeant Andrew Marsh was, regrettably, just as I remembered him. He still had that ridiculous badge of his with the arrow and the letters 'AIM' all pointing upwards (his middle name was Iain), which he wore despite it being against regulations. I was sure that had Constable Wood tried such a thing, he would have been reprimanded within minutes. Fortunately that would not be a problem for much longer.

The policeman scowled even more when I made him wait while I wrote something at the table. In fact I was observing Watson, who was at the window looking down the street. After less than a minute he coughed and moved back to his chair. Time for action.

“I have been receiving reports that you have been targeting a friend of mine, sir”, I said frostily. “Constable Nelson Wood. You seem to keep losing his reports so that he has to redo them, yet you never seem as careless with the reports of other constables. That seems mathematically improbable, to put it politely.”

He looked disdainfully at me.

“He can work”, he sniffed. “That is what he is there for.”

There was the distant sound of banging on the front door, loud enough to momentarily draw the attention of our unpleasant visitor. I was not sure but I thought that I felt the house shake.

“I would like for you to cease your behaviour”, I said evenly.

He smirked at me.

“We all heard how you went through the top brass with your stories, Mr. Holmes”, he sneered. “You have nothing on me.”

A slight change in the approaching heavy tread. The first landing, about twenty seconds away.

“That is true”, I said. _”I_ can do nothing to you.”

It clearly registered even in his dim brain that I looked far too sure of myself despite that statement. He was still struggling to work it out when the door to our room burst open and a familiar figure appeared.

_“WHERE? IS? HE?!!!!_

Thankfully the glass in the windows held (for now, at least) as Hope surged into the room. She looked first at me, then at Watson, and finally at our visitor. I was reminded for some reason of a lion stalking its prey and moving in for the kill.

“Sergeant Marsh, may I introduce my eldest sister Hope”, I said calmly. “Her daughter Gloria is currently seeing a certain Mr. Nelson Wood, whose life you have been doing your level-best to make a complete misery of late.”

“Sir, I...... ye Gods, stop her! Help! Ow!”

I was not sure quite what happened at that precise moment, as I as for some reason distracted by something that I caught sight of out of the window. Watson came over to look with me, and we stared very pointedly across at..... not very much, while behind us there was a combination of angry roaring, stamping, and increasingly terrified whimpering. I suppose that we could have turned round to see what was going on but..... I really did not like the sight of blood.

MDCCCLXXXI

While he was in hospital for three weeks Sergeant Marsh informed his superiors that he wished to resign from the Service, their second loss as Inspector Mountstevens had also eventually been run down by my sister (seriously, he had thought hiding in a gentleman's club behind four large muscled men would have saved him?). I made a point of letting the Service know that I would be monitoring events carefully and, if by some strange misalignment of the heavens it transpired that these two villains got any sort of increased pension any time this millennium or worse, found their way back into any constabulary in the Empire, then the Chief-Commissioner himself could expect a visit from Hope.

Watson said that that might just have qualified as cruel and unusual punishment. I did not quite see his point, but there you are.

MDCCCLXXXI


	2. A Blissful Bonanza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 1881. Sherlock is distracted from other pressing concerns by his father asking him to assist a friend whose plans for the future of his estate have hit a sudden bump in the road. To wit, an extra son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonanza crossover.

It was about a fortnight after my sister Hope had visited Cramer Street and roughly about the time I had finally stopped shaking. Things were back to normal; thankfully this time the number of breakages had been few although I did wonder how Miss Hellingly had that preparation to hand which, she said, was excellent at removing blood-stains but she said that that was something most landladies had.

I had had a quiet day in, but it hit an unexpected bump in the road when Watson returned. He had a large bruise on his face and I was horrified!

“What on earth happened?” I demanded, perhaps a little too forcibly.

He looked surprised at my tone but answered readily enough.

“I was treating old Miss Brown for gastroenteritis”, he said, “and she lashed out at me with her stick.”

“But she did apologize?” I asked. 

He shook his head,

“She told me that she would be getting a better doctor in future”, he sighed, as he sloped off to his room looking totally dejected.

I stared after him, quietly seething that some stroppy old harridan had dared to lay a finger on my friend. This warranted urgent action!

MDCCCLXXXI

Two days later my friend returned home in a much better mood.

“Miss Brown has formally apologized to me”, he said sounding astonished at that. “By letter of course, and as ungraciously as possible, but she did apologize. The surgery has told her that not only will she not be seen again and that they expect payment of my bill within seven days, but if they do not get it they will take legal action and will also warn other surgeries in the area about her.”

He looked so much happier. It had been worth a visit to my parents' house and having to hear about Mother's newest efforts at fiction – seriously, time-travelling scientists going back to an orgy in Ancient Rome, let alone her calling it 'The Big Bang Theory'! – to have put a smile on that beautiful face.

I smiled to myself at Watson's reaction if anyone had indeed called him beautiful. He would pout so prettily, his cheeks would go that boyish red, his hazel eyes would glimmer like autumn leaves......

I had clearly been reading too much poetry of late. I blamed my friend.

MDCCCLXXXI

I was to be even more thankful to my sister Hope (and not, as some snarky medical personage observed, for not coming round to make the house shake again; he really was getting worse no matter how right he may or may not have been on this one occasion!). Her husband Jacob was as I said a politician and, although now in opposition, had made a blistering speech attacking the government over its mishandling of the totally unnecessary war against the Boers. Poor management and insufficient funding of the troops had led to a series of Boer victories which had humiliated the Nation but, rather more happily, had led to Randall calling Jacob an idiot. And he had honestly thought that that would not get back to Hope? He really was stupider than he looked!

What made it even worse for Randall was that Hope, working with Moira, timed her visit to her brother to when he as addressing several of his political overlords. To answer the obvious question, yes; there was security outside but this was Hope, so it was both totally ineffective and soon in hospital. As was Randall when she had done with him, before turning on the politicians.

By some curious alignment of the Fates, the British recognized the independence of the Boer statues under the Empire's nominal overlordship not long after that meeting. But then I supposed that coincidences did happen, even if they did make soma annoying medical personage stray far too near smirking territory!

MDCCCLXXXI

It was the first week in February when Father asked if I could help out a friend of his who owned a farm in Shropshire. I tentatively asked Watson if he would be able to come with me – it was, I admit, one of my very few failings that I too often assumed his compliance and perhaps I deserved the pain that I felt when I saw that look on his face that told me I was taking him for granted again – but thankfully he agreed. He was coming anyway; had he not been available my father's friend would just have had to wait. 

All right, the fact that my mother was looking for someone to read yet another of her horrors – an English county over a hundred miles away suddenly seemed incredibly appealing!

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright owned a large estate in the Marcher county that lay near the small town of Bridgnorth in the Severn Valley. He was an American gentleman whose father had been an early business partner of Father, my parent helping the son secure his inheritance that included the farm where he now lived. Watson filled me in on the history of the town as he knew it, which little interested me but for the fact that he enjoyed telling me such things. And if it made him happy, then it was one way to pass the time.

The oddly-named Ponderosa Farm was the centre of the estate and lay a few miles south of Bridgnorth. The farm was a fair-sized place in itself, and I wondered more than a little about my client when I saw the name inside a sign shaped like a bull's head.

“The name dates to the English Civil War, from the Royalist commander Sir Buller Poundriss”, said my resident mine of information. “Sorry, I know you are not overly fond of history.”

He looked ashamed at his outburst. I had indeed told him that my brain functioned as well as it did because I did not clutter it up with unnecessary facts, but I could not be having him look so sad.

“As I have said before, sometimes the key to the present is indeed in the past”, I said, relieved to see his face clearing. “In this case however I think the more recent past may be the key.”

“What exactly is the problem here?” he asked.

“Mr. Benjamin Cartwright came to this country when his father died, and brought his three sons with him”, I said. “My father knew his father as a business acquaintance and helped him overcome certain difficulties in securing this place; what with their Civil War, relations between our two countries were not good just then. All three Cartwright men were from a different marriage which as we know can often lead to problems, although it seems that they get on well enough which.... well, families!”

He nodded. He knew what I of all people meant by that!

“The three were all set to run the estate between them”, I said. “But now a potential fourth son has turned up.”

“You suspect that this new son is an impostor?” he asked.

“I do not know yet”, I said. “I instituted some inquiries in London before we left and hopefully they will clarify things one way or another soon enough, although the fact we are dealing with the United States complicates matters. I thought that we would call on Mr. Cartwright as a courtesy and then adjourn to the nearby town, where the potential extra son is also staying.”

“I would wager that the three sons he already has are far from happy at his arrival”, he said.

“Neither would most people be when they see their share of an inheritance this size cut”, I said. “From what little information I have on them they seem to have accepted it readily enough, but as we both know appearances can be deceptive. We shall soon see for ourselves.”

MDCCCLXXXI

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright was a solid, muscular fellow in his fifties, with a pair of keen blue eyes beneath his iron-grey hair. He was grateful to us for coming to investigate his problem (thankfully he did not make the mistake that rather too many people did of disrespecting Watson's role in my work, something which had led me to cease working for more than one client and 'fail' to help' several others), and answered all my questions readily enough. He admitted that after the loss of his third wife in giving birth to his third son he had indeed sought solace elsewhere, so the newcomer's claims at least had some grounds.

His sons were as I said each by a different wife, and it most definitely showed. The eldest, Adam, was most similar in appearance to his father, a tall dark fellow who very evidently viewed us with suspicion but was apparently prepared to respect his father's decision to bring us in. The second, Eric, was beefy and muscular ('someone' really did not need to whisper that at least we knew who had eaten all the pies, damn the rogue!), and the third, Joseph, tall and almost otherworldly but friendly enough. A very mixed bunch; I wondered what the fourth son – or not – would be like.

MDCCCLXXXI

The answer was.... very different again. We arrived in Bridgnorth, a curious little town that was actually in two parts with an area down by the sinuous River Severn and an attractive upper town. I know it always annoyed Watson that despite all the walking he did in his job I always seemed to find climbing hills easier than he did. We stayed at a small and rather pleasant tavern on the (aptly-named for once) High Street.

We walked around the town that evening and Watson seemed unusually drawn to a small and frankly uninteresting island in the river. I asked why.

“History again, I am afraid”, he explained. “In the time of the famous King Alfred, the Vikings did not just give up after Wedmore¹. A second and huge group tried to destroy his nascent state in 892 but they got chased all around the country and eventually pinned on that island. The king was clever; the besiegers were instructed to let a few off at a time and eventually the force was rendered useless as a fighting unit.”

As I have said I did not 'get' his interest in dead people from centuries past, but if it made him happy to stare at a flat and barren island in the middle of a river, then so be it. I was a good friend like that.

Hopefully there would be coffee later. Maybe even bacon!

MDCCCLXXXI

The next day I arranged for us to meet Mr. Henry Bliss who, I assumed, would be suspicious about our involvement in matters. To my surprise however, he was quite the opposite. He was about twenty years of age so a little younger than Adam Cartwright, slender of build, dark-haired and quite willing to talk to us.

“I can see why Dad would want to make sure of things”, he said in a broad American accent. “I have no problem with you or a lawyer of his looking at my paperwork, Mr. Holmes, provided that I am there to see fair play.”

“Given the size of his estate such caution is indeed understandable”, I agreed. “You say that you are the result of an affair between Mr. Cartwright and an American lady visiting this country just over two decades ago, one Miss Henrietta Flagg now Mrs. Bliss?”

The young man nodded. 

“I was visiting the Old Country when I read about the old man's illness just before Christmas”, he said. “Naturally I waited until after it was over before introducing myself. They seem all right with me I suppose, though Hoss doesn't like me much.”

 _('Hoss' was I knew the nickname of the middle son Eric,_ not _so named as a certain snarky medical personage had suggested because he was built like a horse! Or had eaten one on top of all those pies; incredibly said snarky medical personage was contriving to get even worse!)._

“We shall of course be instituting inquiries through the medium of the telegraph”, I said, “as well as here. May I ask which part of the country you were visiting when you made the discovery?”

He looked surprised at the question but answered it readily enough.

“Ayrshire, up in Scotland”, he said. “My grandmother – my mother's mother—came from Prestwick and I wanted to see what the place was like. Not that impressive at it turned out but I made a tour of the place for a couple of months.”

“I am surprised that you came over in winter rather than waiting for better weather”, I said. “Even with the wonders of the modern steamship, it must have been an unpleasant crossing.”

“It was not too bad”, he said. “Luckily I do not get seasick, unlike quite a few folks in my family. My mother's brother Uncle Graham died last year and left some jewellery items to her, and I said that I would come over and get them for her rather than risk the postal service. She has a major society event in late May that she attends every year and, being perhaps a tad vain, she would like to be able to wear her new jewels to it once she has had them cleaned.”

“Then I do hope that we are able to resolve matters for you swiftly”, I said.

“I hope so too, sir”, he said politely.

MDCCCLXXXI

My inquiries down in London yielded little over the next few days except to confirm large parts of the incomer's testimony. A Mr. Graham Flagg had indeed died in Kilmarnock the previous year and in his will had left certain family jewellery items to his sister Henrietta, and Mr. Henry Bliss had indeed had a crossing on the 'Adonia' that November. It looked very much as if he was who he had said he was.

Until Watson, who as I have said so often underestimated his own talents or had them underestimated by other people, made an astute observation that put me on the right track.

“This Mr. Bliss”, he said as we sat in a restaurant one evening. “He does have _some_ money of his own, does he not?”

“He does”, I said. “His mother was one of three daughters and all were named co-heirs to their father's estate. Unfortunately for our visitor both the late Mr. Graham and his brother Mr. George both married and each had a number of children, so he cannot inherit from them, but his mother's money is more than adequate to keep them both and indeed to afford him a long holiday in Great Britain even if it is part business.”

“I wonder that he did not bring a companion, then”, he mused. “People with that sort of wealth usually do.”

I stared at him in astonishment. He looked back, clearly perplexed.

“What?” he asked. “Have I said something stupid?”

“No”, I said. “Something very clever. When he was describing his trip to Scotland he kept saying 'I', yet surely someone of his means _must_ have come over with someone. I shall telegraph to London immediately and find out.”

“You will not”, he said firmly.

“Why?” I asked, puzzled.

He gestured to where a waitress was bringing over our meals.

“Your half a pig's worth of bacon is here!” he grinned.

He was right, damn him. I would have to telegraph later but I could do that from the railway-station even if it was in the 'Low Town' as they called it. It would be worth a walk not to miss out on all that lovely bacon!

MDCCCLXXXI

Watson, bless the fellow, had been right over the companion. The first crack in Mr. Bliss's story. Not as so often in my adventures an open lie, but an omission of the truth that made me wonder just what else he was hiding. I instituted a new line of inquiry North of the Border and awaited developments with interest. 

Sure enough, they came.

MDCCCLXXXI

About two weeks later Watson, Mr. Bliss and I drove to Ponderosa Farm where we were to meet Mr. Cartwright. To give him credit the incomer had not asked if I had either confirmed or negated his claims, but he did seem quietly confident. 

He really should not have been.

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright greeted us affably enough and the seven of us sat down. I caught Mr. Joseph's Cartwright eye and he nodded very slightly to me. Good.

“This has been a most interesting investigation”, I said. “I know that the modern policeman is far too often judged on how far and fast they run around gathering clues and making inquiries, but with the modern telegraphic system reaching even across the wide Atlantic Ocean that is not always necessary. I am pleased to tell you, Mr. Cartwright, that my investigations have reached a conclusion and that Mr. Henry Bliss is almost certainly your son.”

That caught most people in the room by surprise. Mr. Benjamin Cartwright recovered first.

“You are sure, sir?” he asked.

“As much as one can be”, I said. “Until they develop some sort of technology which can identify the father by blood or some such means, then one can never be one hundred per cent certain. But yes. You most definitely had a relationship with Miss Henrietta Flagg, later Mrs. Bliss, and a son was the result of it. The dates match perfectly, and as far as can be ascertained she was seeing no-one else at the time.”

“This fellow?” Mr. Eric Cartwright said dubiously.

“There are however a couple of small points that need to be cleared up first”, I said, and I caught the way that Mr. Bliss's face fell at those words. “First, sir, you said that your mother was Mrs. _Henrietta_ Bliss.”

Mr. Bliss looked at me in confusion.

“She is, sir”, he said warily.

“Then perhaps you might explain something, sir”, I said. “You see, I wired Mrs. Bliss and asked her one particular question which, although it doubtless surprised her, she duly answered. That question was as to how she preferred to be addressed.”

They all looked at me in confusion.

“Mrs. Bliss disliked her given name of Henrietta”, I said, “although she did not change it out of respect for her parents. But across the wide blue seas she always called herself 'Hattie'. A true son of hers would surely have known that.”

Everyone was looking at Mr. Bliss now.

“I can call my mother what I wish” he said testily. “I do not like the short form at all; I consider it most disrespectful.”

“I rather think that the second matter will not be so easily disposed of”, I said calmly. “There is someone that I should like you all to meet.”

I walked over to the slightly open door into the next room and opened it fully. A tall, broad-shouldered young blond fellow walked through.

“Gentlemen”, I said, “I would like you all to meet..... _Mr. Henry Bliss!”_

The impostor snarled and whipped out his gun and fired at the newcomer. There was a dull click – and nothing. Stunned, he fired three more times but all he got out of his gun were three more clicks before the Cartwright brothers were onto him. I applied the handcuffs that I had just happened to have had on me.

“You bastard!” the trapped man snarled at me.

“It takes one to know one”, I retorted. “One of my more questionable clients over the years has been one of London's top pick-pockets. Rather than take payment in cash I took it in skills; I was able to take your gun from the pocket, remove the bullets then replace it. I had a feeling that you might react badly to the reappearance of the gentleman whose inheritance you were trying to steal.”

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright gasped.

“You mean.....”

I turned to him.

“This, sir, is the _real_ Mr. Henry Bliss, and from his face alone I would say almost certainly your fourth son. He came to Great Britain as we were told and did indeed journey around Scotland, but he also came with a travelling companion – _Mr. Evan Jones here!_ It was Mr. Jones who read about your illness last December, sir, and who spotted a chance to acquire himself a great bonanza. He invented an excuse to have to return home early, but on leaving his friend came here and pretended to be him. His friendship with the gentleman he was impersonating had enabled him to learn much of the family, and the documents that he was taking back for his friend served a double purpose in reinforcing his story. I suppose we should perhaps be grateful that he did not stoop to murdering him beforehand, hoping instead that he would return home none the wiser.”

Mr. Adam Cartwright looked uncertainly at the real Mr. Bliss.

“You sure look like dad”, he said warily.

“I sure do”, Mr. Bliss said. “And right sorry, sirs, to see what a man I had thought a friend was doing to my good name. My poor mother will be mortified!”

“So you did not come over to claim part of the estate, then?” Mr. Joseph Cartwright asked.

“Sir, I did not”, Mr. Bliss said. “Indeed as a bastard offspring I would have expected nothing – unlike my former friend here.”

“Impersonation is not a crime”, Mr. Jones said sulkily.

“You are forgetting the not insignificant matter of attempted murder in front of a rather large number of witnesses”, I pointed out. “Despite your being a United States citizen, I dare say that your own country will take a dim view of such proceedings.”

MDCCCLXXXI

Indeed they did. Given the then rather parlous relations across the Atlantic, the British government agreed to return Mr. Jones to his home land provided they received an assurance that he would be properly tried and suitably sentenced if (when) found guilty. Despite the best efforts of his lawyer twelve good men and true decided that he had indeed sought to kill his former friend, and he duly paid the full penalty. 

Even better, Watson was rewarded for his inspiration by my buying him three double-sized bars of chocolate from the sweet-shop in Bridgnorth before we left, one of which actually survived to see London. I was frankly impressed that it was even one!

Well, it was _part_ of one.

MDCCCLXXXI

_Notes:_   
_1) Not a treaty in the modern sense, more an agreement under which the defeated Viking leader Guthrum was baptised and sent off to be ruler of distant East Anglia where he was an annoying but manageable neighbour. This was 878; eight years later Guthrum did something else that was a bit too annoying so Alfred took London and its environs from him. About six years after that the second great Viking horde descended on the king's English Confederacy only to find it rather more prepared than they had expected, and ended up on that island in the Severn at Bridgnorth from where Alfred did indeed allow them to slip away a few at a time._

MDCCCLXXXI


	3. Model Behaviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 1881. Ah spring, when a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of.... what on earth is he doing with his life? Sherlock is approached by a Victorian male model and asked to prevent him from ending up married! But there is more to Mr. John Smith than meets the eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pocahontas crossover.

A technological development which happened this month gives me the chance to address another point raised by some of Watson's readers, to wit the different spellings that were in use throughout the publication of his original stories. As everyone knows the English language evolves gradually over time which means that some writings can look strange to readers of a later generation, and of all things it was the launch of a ship that spring which helped make this point.

Three years back The British And North American Royal Steam Packet Company had decided to shorten its name somewhat and had become The Cunard Steamship Company (after its owner, Samuel Cunard). This year they had launched the 'Servia', a ship at just over five hundred feet long some two-thirds the length but only one-seventh the tonnage of the ill-starred 'Titanic' just three short decades later. The 'Servia' was so-named for the 'new' nation of the Serbs, today (1936) part of Yugoslavia after somehow having managed to survive the Great War. The different spellings were used interchangeably at the time; I always thought the 'V' made it look as if one was trying to fit in, rather like when Watson told me about the early Hanoverian monarchs who proclaimed themselves 'totally English', but in such a thick German accent that no-one could understand them! I knew that one of his more unpleasant patients (a competition for which there were far too many entrants) was one such, and he had nearly danced for joy when she had said that she was quitting England and heading back to Saxony!

The 'Servia' also represented something of a new era in luxury travel across the Atlantic Ocean, and in retrospect was termed the first ocean-liner as she had been constructed of steel rather than iron and had electric lighting throughout. Not that poor Watson, who would likely get sea-sick in a row-boat on the Serpentine, would ever have wanted to travel in her!

MDCCCLXXXI

“I need you to help Tommy.”

I would have liked to have responded to that comment from my brother Logan with an exasperated sigh, but as per usual he had Ajax draped over him and looking suspiciously at me. And he was doing that growling thing again, which told me that if my departure was a shade too slow then I might well hear things that I really did not wish to hear.

I had terrible relatives!

“You have ten Debating Societies”, I pointed out evenly, “so given the general lack of imagination when it comes to naming people in our society, there are likely quite a few Tommys. Which one of your 'boys' is it?”

Logan gasped as Ajax man-handled him into an even tighter grip but, I noted, did not exactly struggle to escape. 

“No, our accounts fellow”, he said. “Tommy Christian. You remember, the red-head that looks like a hair-brush.”

Ajax sniggered at that.

“That is a tad cruel”, I said, privately thinking that it was also more than a tad accurate. “Yes, I remember Tommy. A bold lad who wanted to be a sailor but luckily he turned out to have a brilliant head for figures. A rather safer career, all told. What is wrong with him?”

“He is in love”, Logan sighed. “With someone he thought he could never have.”

I spotted the tense at once.

 _“Thought?”_ I asked. “Something has happened to change his mind?”

“Yes”, Logan said. “But there is a problem. Arguably one of the most handsome men in London..... ooof!”

I somehow managed not to smile as Ajax's embrace suddenly became that much tighter. My brother flapped about uselessly but even with his musculature he was going nowhere any time soon.

“Jack!” 

“Jack doesn't like it when you say other men look good”, Ajax all but snarled. “Makes Jack mad!”

“I have to finish telling my brother about Tommy”, Logan gasped.

“Not to worry”, I smiled. “I have enough to be getting on with. I will leave you now.”

“Sherlock! Help!”

“Good-bye, Logan. I will see you around.... _perhaps!”_

I made a point of walking as fast as I could to the door, but still heard a moan which traversed an impressive number of octaves. I wondered..... just how much did funeral-wreaths cost these days?

MDCCCLXXXI

It was the first day of spring (hopefully someone would inform the English weather some time), and we had a visitor to Cramer Street. Despite having the most ordinary name imaginable there was nothing ordinary about Mr. John Smith, a handsome, muscular blond fellow of about thirty years of age, He was in fact a distant cousin to his famous namesake who had married the ill-starred Pocahontas nearly three centuries back. The Victorian Mr. Smith was famed for modelling a whole range of outdoor clothes, and had a good reputation for philanthropy in attending charity events whenever he could.

However even for some of my clients, his first statement was a tad unusual.

“I need you to help me not get married, sir.”

I looked at him curiously.

“To help you _not_ to get married?” I echoed.

Our guest took a deep breath. Even though I already knew it for a fact, I could have detected immediately that for all his wealth he was a far from happy man. 

“I started this ramp because a friend of mine, Tommy, dared me to do it”, Mr. Smith began. “I... I will confess that I always have been a bit vain, and he said that I should make money out of my looks. I admit that I was dubious at first and he had to all but drag me along to my first session.”

“Do you not enjoy your work?” I asked.

“I did for a while”, he admitted. “I was hopeless at first, I admit, and they employed Tommy to stand behind me and get me into some sort of order. He is a bit of a runt but a good fellow; he has featured in some of my more recent shots. He said once that he is the 'before' to my 'after' which.... I would have objected but the photographer liked the idea and ran with it. For the past three shots he has been there looking awkward and a mess while I act all cool, calm and collected – right until the dratted photograph is done and I can hare off to the changing-rooms for a stiff drink.”

“So what has changed?” I asked.

“Pardon, sir?”

“You seem to have initially been happy to pose with this friend of yours”, I said. “Yet now you are not. Has something happened to him?”

Mr. Smith winced.

“Tommy suggested that I sign a contract with a new photographer”, he said, his face now one of open distaste. “An oily fellow who I do not like at all, but worse; he wants me to pose with a ghastly woman called Miss Laura Paddock. She looks at me like.... I can see her making wedding plans, sir! Worse, there is a shoot coming up in which I have to wear pyjamas and a dressing-gown while she is in night-clothes!”

I could see that Watson was envious of this fellow's 'difficulty', and would likely have jumped at the chance to earn money in that way.

“So”, I said, “this photographer does not wish to use your friend, and instead wishes you to stand around with some presumably attractive female person for which you will be earning lots of easy money.”

It was rather enjoyable, Watson's shocked expression at my having so accurately judged what he had been thinking at that moment. Sure enough, _there_ was the pout!

“She is not that attractive”, Mr. Smith said firmly, “and her voice is like a nail scraping on a blackboard! Tommy does not mind either way; he has a steady job as an accountant with a business in the City.”

I knew that, of course. But it offered an opening for another question.

“I do need _all_ the facts for any investigation”, I said. “Tell me about your friend, please.”

“His name is Thomas Christian. No relation to the Mutiny on the Bounty fellow, at least as far as I know. He is not dissimilar in appearance to me except his hair is more ginger than blond and he is thinner as well as a bit younger; only four years though he looks a lot more. In his own words he 'has a face like a bag of spanners'! I do not know why he does not make more of himself but he seems happy as he is. And he does not have Miss Paddock to look forward to any time soon, the lucky fellow!”

“That lucky fellow may be abandoning you not in the wide Pacific Ocean but to the wedding-hungry Miss Paddock”, I smiled. “Her name is I think familiar from somewhere. Watson, have we encountered it before?”

My friend nodded.

“Only indirectly”, he said. “Chief-Inspector Michael Paddock was one of the senior officers on that list of Superintendent Horne's. Miss Laura Paddock is his niece although she is nearly forty years his junior.”

“I remember now; he was the one with the curious interest in hardware items and bathroom-fittings”, I smiled. “Even for me, some things are perhaps best left uninvestigated! May I be allowed a rather personal question, Mr. Smith?”

Our guest looked curiously at me.

“I suppose so”, he said. “What is it?”

“Why is someone reputed to be one of the handsomest men in London Town still unmarried?”

Both he and Watson were clearly surprised at that.

“There... is someone”, Mr. Smith admitted. “But with my career at the moment let alone facing the horror of Miss Paddock, I dare not make an approach. Besides, I doubt very much that they would have me.”

He was as it happened not quite correct on that. As he was about to find out - the hard way!

MDCCCLXXXI

I promised to do everything that I could for Mr. Smith and we bade him farewell. Watson looked at me shrewdly as I sat back down.

“You are reading me too well these days, friend”, I said. “Yes, some of what Mr. Smith had to say did surprise me. Fortunately I think that this case will be solvable with very little effort, although not without some pain.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Pain for who?” he asked.

“Perhaps Mr. Smith himself”, I said with a smile. “And most certainly for the wedding-hungry Miss Paddock. For all her ambitions I am certain that she will not get Mr. Smith up the aisle any time soon.”

He looked adorably frustrated at that. There would likely be another pout coming soon.... and there it was!

MDCCCLXXXI

Two days later Mr. Smith was back in Cramer Street. If he had been depressed at our last meeting, now he was visibly angry.

“I got a job because some other fellow had pulled out at the last minute”, he said, “and they said that they wanted another 'before and after' shot. So I took Tommy along.”

“Did something go wrong?” I asked. “Surely Miss Paddock was not there?”

“Worse!” Mr. Smith glowered. “The photographer was a fellow called Mr. William Biggs. Huge bear of a fellow and would you believe it, he took an interest in Tommy of all people!”

“I know you said that your friend does not share your own good looks”, I said, “but they do say that there is someone out there for everyone. Which given the ever increasing number of people on this planet is likely quite true.”

“This fellow would have made two of Tommy”, Mr. Smith groused. “Worse, he did not seem to mind the attention. I never knew that he swung that way, and when this Biggs fellow asked him to stay behind for some solo shots, I stayed too. I said that I had to wait for him.”

“Still, at least it was not Miss Paddock”, I said consolingly. “It could have been worse.”

MDCCCLXXXI

“Now it damn well _is_ worse!”

It was the following day. Mr. Smith was back looking rather more dishevelled than the day before. Apparently the second day of his latest photographic session had not been an improvement on the first.

“What happened?” I asked.

“This rogue Biggs finished all his shots and we were finally done”, Mr. Smith sighed, running his hand through his long blond hair. “Then he approached Tommy and asked him if he wanted to go for a drink down the pub. He knew damn well that I could not go with them as I had told him that I had a second session that day – and with that dratted woman to boot! Then just as I was leaving I heard him tell Tommy, 'just call me Big Willy!'”

Watson snorted at that. I suppose that I should have given him a reproving look, but I generously decided to let him have that one.

“To cap it all, Tommy did not come back to his room that evening”, Mr. Smith sighed.

“You share rooms?” Watson asked, clearly surprised. 

Our guest blushed fiercely.

“I let him have a place in the house that I bought in Kensington”, he said. “Huge barn of a place which I bought partly as an investment; it is way too large for just me and Tommy is one of the few people that I can put up with for any length of time. I... just popped down to see if he was all right.”

I reflected that the criminals nabbed by our friends LeStrade and Gregson (in between nabbing cake) came up with better ones than that. Also that Watson really was becoming a bad influence on me!

MDCCCLXXXI

We had a different guest the next day, a strawberry blond fellow of slender build and unprepossessing appearance but with a smile a mile wide. He had clearly made an effort with his hair but it still looked too much like a hair-brush. Some people really did not take much care with their appearances these days; I had said as much to my friend when we had happened to see him arriving and he had nodded most fervently.

“Watson”, I said with a smile, “meet Mr. Thomas Christian.”

The young fellow bowed to my friend, then smiled at me.

“It worked?” I asked. 

He nodded.

“It worked all night!” he grinned. “What's left of Mr. John Smith is sleeping off his 'brave conquest' in his bed. Or rather my bed; he couldn't manage the stairs once we were done!”

“Mr. Smith mentioned that Tommy does the accounts for a City business”, I explained. “What he did not know was that business was my brother Logan's Debating Societies.”

“I never did the business myself, doctor”, Mr. Christian said. “What with having Jonno as a friend I always lusted after him, but with my looks I knew there was no chance. That was until I caught him looking at me in a certain way during a shoot a while back; I was changing into a swimming-costume at the time and saw him in the mirror. As you suggested Mr. Holmes, I arranged with a photographer friend of mine to set up a session with the frightful Miss Paddock, and after he'd endured that horror I got him to approach you.”

“With the result that the man recently on the front cover of a magazine apparently setting out to explore a strange new world has found one rather closer to home”, I smiled. 

“I'd better be getting back and helping him with those discoveries”, Mr. Christian smiled. “Logan – well, what's left of him after he made the mistake of teasing Jack the other day – generously gave me a box of 'goodies' to try out on him, so if you don't see him around for a while you'll know why!”

I shook my head at him. The young of today were terrible!

MDCCCLXXXI

What was left of Mr. John Smith came round to thank us three days later. He was actually crying at the effort of the stairs, but he seemed happy. At least until Tommy mentioned that he'd obtained a second 'box of delights' for the coming weekend, when he looked absolutely terrified!

As they say, be careful what you wish for. You may get it - _Mr. John Smith certainly did!_

MDCCCLXXXI


	4. Per Ardua Ad Astra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April 1881. A medically-themed affair that starts with an explosion just along from Sherlock's and John's rooms in Cramer Street and ends with proof that sometimes one really can have too much of a good thing. The good thing in this case being sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the Manor House case involving Doctor Adams.

Few people can have exploded – quite literally in his case – into the lives of Watson and myself than the hapless Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams. At a time of great medical advancement scientists were seemingly always making discoveries and pronouncements that sometimes caused both I and my friend more than a degree of unease. I remember him saying that the day would soon come whereby Mankind would have to make some difficult choices about what could be done in the name of humanity and also what actually _should_ be done. One of the first people to face that hurdle was Doctor Adams whose medical discoveries were – again, quite literally – explosive.

Also, for a certain medical acquaintance of mine who I had to treat to a whole week of chocolate desserts plus a large jar of chocolate-drops to make up for some very slight amount of my not perhaps being the best friend possible, maybe ever so slightly embarrassing. And that pout of his could have removed varnish off a table!

MDCCCLXXXI

Thus far April had been what might best be described as a variable month. On the downside I knew that my friend had been affected by the humiliating British defeat in the Boer War, albeit one covered with a fig-leaf of suzerainty which everyone saw past. But at least I had been able to assist my friend in a couple of matters where he had requested my help. Our friend Peter Greenwood had wanted to see the Football Association Challenge Cup Final between Old Carthusians and Old Etonians¹, as he knew someone playing for the former team, and I had been able to get him a box seat (I had had to visit the family home but luckily Mother and her stories had been away). And Watson himself had wanted to be there for the opening of the new National History Museum down in Kensington, which joined the nearby Science and Victoria & Albert Museums, both of which had been established as an indirect result of the 1851 Great Exhibition. 

The pestilential Randall had called round the next day and, presumably having read of our attendance in the 'Times', made a quite uncalled-for remark about old fossils and Watson. I waited until he was gone and, knowing that he was headed for Guilford Street, dispatched Mother a telegram to tell her about her lounge-lizard son and his role in the definitely not accidental smashing of her favourite Greek vase. That would teach the pest to tease my friend about his age!

MDCCCLXXXI

Shortly after our Museum trip it was a fine Spring morning when the city was for once not wrapped in its standard fog and looked (fairly) presentable. I had somehow found my way to the breakfast-table where, saints be praised, Watson had my first cup of coffee ready and was already pouring my second. Both of which were dispatched before I sat down.

Another coffee later I was feeling marginally better and was perusing the 'Times' when suddenly there was a muffled explosion from outside. Watson hurried to open the window while I followed more sedately, and on looking out saw that there was smoke coming from the building – the daftly named 'Manor House' if memory served me correctly – a little way down on the opposite side of the road. Fortunately there did not seem to be any flames and after a short while the smoke died away, probably to the disappointment of the inevitable crowd of onlookers who had as ever gathered with their usual impressive speed.

“I wonder what that was?” Watson asked.

I sighed heavily.

“I fear that our breakfast is going to be delayed while we find out”, I said. “Briefly, if the fellow interrupting it knows what is good for him!”

“How can you know that?” he asked, looking at me in surprise.

“I seem to have picked up some preternatural powers from the Wriothesley case”, I said off-handedly. “Or maybe even I saw the fellow crossing the street at such an angle that he must be headed here, which means that the distant banging on the door must be him.”

Watson scowled at my most excellent sardonicity but there was soon the sound of hurried steps on our stairs. Moments later our door flew open and a scruffy fellow all but fell in to the evident consternation of Janet the maid who was hurrying up behind him. Our visitor was about fifty years of age, balding, untidily dressed and clearly over-excited.

“Gentlemen!” he panted. _“I_ am Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams!”

Had he declared himself the rightful King of England it would have better suited his exclamatory tone. Clearly we were meant to either be impressed and/or to know who the blazes he was, and in both those ambitions he signally failed.

“Please be seated, Doctor Adams”, I said calmly, leading him to the fireside chair while Watson went to the table to get his notepad and pencil, then quickly doubled back to pour me another coffee (he was a good friend). “Am I to assume that your presence here is due to the loud report from across the street some minutes past?”

Somehow our visitor's face contrived to turn even redder.

“Sabotage!” he spluttered. “Those ne'er-do-wells at the University are jealous of my research.”

“Precisely what are you researching?” I asked languidly, taking the cup that Watson had offered and downing it in a single go. 

Our visitor looked a little surprised for some reason, but duly answered my question.

“Sex.”

It was also fortunate that Watson had just handed me that coffee as he contrived to trip over his feet during the journey to fetch me another one. I suppose that one really does not expect to hear such words first thing of a morning, but then having grown up with my mother's complete lack of any filter which had on more than one occasion led to perturbations over the dinner-table, I of course was not.

“Can you be a little more precise, sir?” I asked, feeling depressed now that I had to actually wait for Watson to make me more coffee. Scientists really needed to prioritize the more important technological advancements, in my opinion.

“I am researching as to whether gentlemen can increase their chances of acquiring a mate by intensifying their innate scent”, Doctor Adams explained. “It works for some animals in nature, and I fully believe that it can be made to work for humans too.”

I did not like the sound of that, but as Watson said that was one of the perils of advancing society through scientific research. One never quite knew what can of worms one might be opening next, most often not until all the worms were out of the can and well on their way to worm-freedom.

“What form do these investigations take?” I asked, smiling as Watson brought me his own coffee while I waited. I had to go to the trouble of adding all the extra sugars that I needed so that was only fair.

“The subject attempts to massively boost their scent's carrying power by the application of various chemical compounds that I am experimenting with”, our visitor said. “My assistant Mr. Wade – a reliable fellow if a little young – is prone to give them fanciful names but fortunately that is his only weakness. We had what had seemed to be a modicum of success with the last one, and I had high hopes that we had enough to go public about it. I am not sure why but Mr. Wade labels it 'P.A.A.A.', although I cannot get him to tell me if that means anything.”

Although I was not looking at him I sensed a reaction in Watson to that. Those initials seemingly meant something to him. I wondered what.

“Most tiresomely our sole test subject has somehow been coerced into pulling out of the experiment”, Doctor Adams said. “He sent a telegram this morning to say that he would not be coming in today and for some little time ahead, and that details would follow. I know that he was only a volunteer but it is most inconvenient. And now this!”

Or perhaps fortunate for the test subject that he was absent on today of all days, I thought. Watson really should make me those few coffees to make up for my catching his clearly contagious cattiness as this was not like me at all. I had said as much to my sister Moira when she had called round recently; she had coughed heavily for some reason.

“I think that the doctor and I should come and see your laboratory”, I said, “or at least what remains of it. I suggest that you return there and avoid touching anything, then the doctor and I will be along once we have breakfasted. You might use the time to assess the damage and make a list of anything that appears to be missing.”

Judging from his expression our visitor was a little put out by my apparent lack of urgency, but he nodded and excused himself. Just as well; if he made the mistake of standing between me and bacon then his house would not be the only thing exploding in his vicinity today. _I would be joining it!_

MDCCCLXXXI

Just under an hour later Watson and I were inside the Manor House. Structural engineers were still checking the building but they had deemed it safe to enter for now, the damage fortunately having been restricted to part of one wall along the north side of the building which, fortunately, was not a load-bearing one and which faced out onto a narrow alleyway that ran between the Manor House and its neighbour. They would of course have to return and mount a more thorough examination of the place later, so the doctor was not in the clear yet.

There was the lingering stench of smoke and, of course, the laboratory itself was a mess. I looked around the place.

“You said that you are possessed of an assistant”, I reminded our host. “Is he available?”

“He should have been in by now”, Doctor Adams said, sounding vexed. “He sometimes works in the small room through there. I normally see him of a morning but I had arranged to visit my sister up in Essex today so I did not. I always go out via the back as there is a short-cut to the station that way.”

I did not like that this explosion had happened on a day when the house-owner happened not to be here, either. He had gestured to a battered green door in one wall of the room that was hanging by just one hinge. I crossed the room and leaned around it, looking into the room beyond. 

Oh. _Not_ good.

“Watson”, I said casually, “can you come and take a look at this?”

My friend crossed the room and looked through the door. The small room behind was very obviously where the explosion had occurred, the wall to the outside being the one that had been partly demolished. Evidently the connecting door between the rooms which had been damaged by the explosion must have been closed given the severe scorching all along one side of it. There was a small amount of shattered glass on the floor some of which was likely from whatever had been being experimented on and the rest likely from the blasted small arch-window above the door leading out as both what was left of it and some of the shards were stained.

I suppose that I should add that there was also a dead body on the floor. These minor details are sometimes important.

“Mr. Wade!” Doctor Adams exclaimed in horror.

Watson hurried forward to the dead man and began to check him over. Apart from his horrified expression which suggested that he had seen his doom coming upon him at the last, there seemed to be no marks on him. My friend checked him thoroughly then shook his head.

“A heart-attack is the most likely cause of death”, he remarked, scratching his head, “but I cannot for the life of me see what caused it. There are no wounds on his body and no sign of poison. Unless he had some inherent weakness of the heart, perhaps?”

“He was very fit”, Doctor Adams said. “He walked here from his lodgings rain or shine, even though he lives some two miles away.”

I looked thoughtfully around the room then nodded to myself before ushering us all out and closing the door behind us.

“Doctor Adams”, I said, “today I would like you to do a complete inventory of things here then tell me what, if anything, is missing. I have an idea as to what may have happened here but as my friend the doctor knows I have an appointment in the City today that I cannot miss. It is a matter involving Her Majesty's Government, and as I am sure you can appreciate they do not expect to be kept waiting for anyone.”

Watson knew me well enough by now not to question something he knew to be palpably untrue. If I had had any such appointment I would have had to have gotten him to remind me of it. 

“I can stay and help”, he offered, nodding slightly in my direction to show that he had understood my unsaid message. “It is my day off.”

“That would be appreciated”, I smiled. “Doctor Adams, I shall also need a complete list of everyone who came to the house in the past twenty-four hours and your assistant's movements up to the time of his death, as far as they can be ascertained.”

“Have you any idea who could have done this?” our host asked. “Surely not someone in my profession?”

“My current hypothesis is that your fellow-doctors are innocent in this particular matter”, I said, “but I would rather wait until you have checked to see what is missing. If it what I think it is then the matter can be swiftly resolved. I shall however be instituting inquiries into just why your current test subject withdrew in such a timely manner.”

“I can see one item that is missing straight away”, Doctor Adams said, looking at a cupboard whose glass front had been shattered. “Our latest solution was kept locked in there and nowhere else, but it has gone. It must have been taken as I cannot see any trace of it elsewhere. Except for this.

He held up a tiny phial, which I estimated to have less than a teaspoon of some unpleasantly dark liquid inside it.

“Is there enough in there for what you want?” Watson wondered. 

Our host smiled.

“This is actually a full dose, gentlemen”, he explained. “Applied to the scent glands it magnifies a gentleman's innate scent by a factor of several dozen at least. It is powerful material, doctor.”

“A love-potion”, Watson sighed. “In this day and age!”

I smiled and headed out.

MDCCCLXXXI

I had expected Doctor Adams to come round that evening but late that evening he wired us to say that he would have to stay the night in Essex and would see us the following evening instead. Instead Watson took me through the list of people who had come to the house.

“When he said that he kept no servants, that was not quite true”, he began. “The Manor House consists of four adjoining properties that are overseen by a housekeeper, a Mrs. Charlotte Cayman. Frankly she is terrifying; I doubt even one of those Turkish rug salesmen could get past her. Think Great Elizabeth but with more attitude! She has a whole group of maids to clean the place but they always clean the four houses in the same order every day, and had not started on the doctor's house when the explosion happened.”

He opened his notebook.

“Doctor Adams's rooms had three visitors the day before the explosion”, he said. “The first caller was a fellow medic, a Doctor Philip Wealdstone...”

“Not him”, I said at once. 

He looked at me in surprise but said nothing. I had had a bad day having run into Randall who had demanded that I stop what I was doing to assist him in some trifling matter, and his tiresome refusal to take no for an answer had grated on me. Although it was probably unfair of me to be taking that out on my friend.

“At around two o' clock Doctor Adams's brother – well, his half-brother – Doctor Edmund Rusper called”, Watson went on, looking offended at my tone. “The two most definitely do not get on; Doctor Rusper part-owns a medical magazine which recently published an article that was highly critical of Doctor Adams's studies. Doctor Rusper walked straight into the main room beyond which Mr. Wade was working; that was when that the maids were cleaning the Manor House and one of them showed him in.”

“Did they happen to notice if Mr. Wade had spotted him?” I asked.

“Doctor Adams told me that his assistant did usually leave the door open between the two rooms but that he also often got carried away in his studies”, he said, “and had not noticed he himself entering and leaving a room on more than one occasion. And finally Mrs. Ernestine Sellers, one of the doctor's few regular patients called round to collect some pills just after Doctor Rusper. Because they too knew that Mr. Wade got distracted, one of the maids let her in. The girl told me that she thought her coming was, and I quote, 'a bit rum'.”

“Why?” I asked.

“She is rich enough to send a servant”, he said, “and has done in the past, although she claimed that she was visiting a friend in the area. Doctor Adams was in the house but in the water closet when she was admitted and she was alone in the main laboratory for some little time.”

“But no appreciable motive”, I said. “No it cannot be her. What about the day in question?”

“Mr. Jacob Wade arrived at eight, half an hour ahead of his usual start time”, he said, checking his notes. “That was not so unusual; Doctor Adams said that he was always keen and never late. Their recent success had led to more tests being needed to be done, so presumably he had thought to get an early start on them. It was just as well that day....”

I held my hand up to stop him.

“What had he forgotten that made him had to leave again?” I asked.

He stared at me in astonishment.

“Yes, he had left his umbrella at the local paper shop so had to dash back for it”, he said. “How could you know that?”

“It seemed probable”, I smiled. 

He pouted at my not explaining further but carried on with his narrative.

“He returned to the house at a quarter-past eight”, he said, “and the explosion that took his life happened some fifteen minutes later. I do not see how that helps us, really.”

“On the contrary”, I said. “It makes everything almost completely clear. Tell me, did you happen to find out the name of the lady friend with whom Mr. Wade was pursuing a relationship?”

“Yes”, he said looking at me even more suspiciously, “someone he had been seeing for over a year. A local girl called Alice Salton, just turned twenty-one. What does she have to do with all this?”

“I hope to be able to tell Doctor Adams that tomorrow”, I said mysteriously. “By the by, I eliminated the possibility of the test subject being in any way involved. Mr. Edward Allen inherited a house in Surrey from an uncle he barely knew existed and had to go there to sort out certain legal matters surrounding that as a matter of urgency. He did send the doctor a letter explaining all, which he wrote on the train down there, but doubtless it has not reached him yet.”

He nodded.

“Another thing”, I said. “Did you know why Mr. Wade labelled his solution P.A.A.A?”

He sniggered and nodded.

“It is from a Latin phrase”, he said. “Per Ardua Ad Astra – Through Hardship To The Stars!”

I thought briefly if perhaps uncharitably that the late Mr. Wade had deserved to be dispatched the Great Beyond if he had been coming out with things like that! That was almost as bad as Logan and his Debating Society ''humour'!

“The only thing that I do not know”, I said vexedly, “is as to whether this dreadfully-named potion really does work as our client claimed. I do not think that I can complete the case without that.”

I sighed and headed off to the bathroom, although I caught in the mirror his smug look. He might have been less smug had he known just what was headed in this direction very soon, the villain!

MDCCCLXXXI

I knew that Watson would be home a little late the next day so I made sure to leave him a note that I had had to go out but would buy him dinner at one of our clubs if he met me there at seven o' clock. I also very generously left him two chocolate éclairs to take the edge of his hunger, so was not surprised when through the small hole I had drilled in the screen I saw him devour them both within a minute. Some gentlemen really were slaves to their favourite foodstuffs!

Rather amusingly, after changing his clothes he then looked furtively around the room before crossing to the mirror and taking something out of his pocket which he applied to his glands and neck. The small vial of dark potion that he had found and which Doctor Adams had told me he was missing at least two of. Then he went to finish getting ready for when we went out.

He was reading his book a few minutes later when there was a knock at the door. I watched to see if he would spot it, but he called out for whoever it was to enter. It was Brodie Drummond leading the huge Tiny, my brother Mark's lover.

“Logan asked me to if I could bring Tiny over for a check-up”, Brodie smiled. “He wanted to ask if.....”

He stopped, then sniffed at my friend. His eyes widened and he actually _growled!_

“Mr. Drummond!” Watson protested edging towards the safety of my room. “Brodie! Stop it!”

“He smells gorgeous!” Tiny snarled. “Want!”

He removed his shirt and vest far faster than any gentleman should have been able to (especially as there was so much more shirt to remove in his case!), and was at the door to my room before my friend could open it. Watson whimpered in fear as his huge form loomed over him and he saw Brodie moving in.....

“Hullo Brodie, Tiny.”

I was by the window before Watson noticed me, and he stared in utter astonishment. 

“Hullo Mr. Holmes, sir”, both 'boys' smiled.

Tiny slipped his clothes back on easily enough then he and Brodie came over to me. I gave them both a coin and they both smirked at my friend before leaving. From that rapidly darkening expression I should perhaps have made sure that he had not had any sharp implements to hand just now. He looked _murderous!_

“So, doctor”, I grinned. _“Does_ that love-potion work, perchance?”

“You _knew!”_ he hissed. “How the blazes did you know?”

“You make a terrible poker player, doctor”, I smiled. “When I left you back at Doctor Adams's house I caught you looking at that phial and could guess what you were planning. You took a phial then used it to further your own ends. For shame!”

 _“Shame?”_ he squeaked indignantly. “You set me up!”

“Yes.”

He glared at me then stormed into his room and slammed the door so hard that the bookcase behind me shook slightly. He was, apparently, not exactly pleased for some reason.

Ah well.

MDCCCLXXXI

Next day was, I knew, very tiring for Watson (I could have said 'very hard' but that would have been beneath me). He had to put up with my knowing smile all day, and also had a call at Brodie's molly-house which I may or may not have arranged. It was his bad luck (and some more careful planning on my part) that Mark and Tiny were dropping by at the same time, and that Watson had as a result had to cope with both Brodie's smirking and the huge bulk that was Tiny asking if he really had upset him. As if anyone was going to tell someone as big as that that he was upset with him!

Watson was still glowering when our client arrived punctually at half-past five as expected and I bade him sit down. I poured him a drink before starting.

“I am also expecting someone else”, I explained, handing him his drink, “who I believe can help throw more light on the events surrounding your assistant's untimely demise.”

“His killer?” Doctor Adams asked, clearly aghast.

“Not exactly”, I said mysteriously.

Before either of them could press me to explain that cryptic remark there was a knock at the door. I opened it and ushered in a small thin girl with flaxen hair and an expression that was verging on terrified. Doctor Adams looked at her in confusion.

“Alice?” he said querulously. “What are you doing here?”

I helped the girl be seated at the table opposite me, poured her a small drink and took my own position by the fireplace ignoring a certain friend of mine whose glare could have removed paint. I would have to buy him some more chocolate to get on his good side again, but I supposed that he was just about worth it.

“When I said that Miss Salton here was 'not exactly' the killer of her beau Mr. Wade, I spoke the truth”, I began. “It is a most unfortunate tale in that while Miss Salton was slightly responsible for Mr. Wade's death, he must bear by far the larger share of the blame. It was an accident arising from a most unusual set of circumstances.”

Miss Salton sniffed dolefully.

“While in your home yesterday doctor, I abstracted one of your vials of P.A.A.A.”, I continued, looking pointedly at a certain medical acquaintance of mine who suddenly seemed to be finding the rug beneath his feet quite fascinating. “I wished to have it scientifically tested by a friend in London to see if my theory, which I knew was right in every other aspect, correct on one final critical aspect. The telegram I received subsequently was only confirmation of what really happened that cold and terrible morning.”

“Mr. Wade comes to the house some time before his normal hour, which in itself was not so unusual. However I tied this in with something that you told me, Doctor Adams, namely that you expected to be away from the house that day but had been delayed in your departure which was why you were still there. In another part of the house and headed out the back, which was all well and good in light of what was about to happen.”

“Mr. Wade decides that with his employer absent, he would smuggle in his lady-friend to keep him company at work. There are many worse sins in this world, and it was singularly unfortunate that in this case such a minor transgression was to elicit so major a penalty. He arrives early and enters as per normal. Next, he passes his long-coat out through the narrow window over the door in his room to Miss Salton who is waiting outside. As you told me that door is kept locked and you have the only key, so no-one could have gained access to the house that way. He knows that as you told us, you do not come to the laboratory on days when you are visiting your family, and even if you did he could always lock the door to his own little cubby-hole.”

“After a few minutes Mr. Wade tells one of the maids that he has left his umbrella at the paper-shop and would be dashing back to retrieve it. He returns instead to his room and some minutes later Miss Salton disguised in his long-coat manages to join him undetected. It is a busy time of the day for the servants who have to clean through four adjoining houses, and we also know as did Mr. Wade that they always start at the other end of the block, so there would be little likelihood of anyone spotting that the person who enters the house soon after is shorter and thinner than the one who entered not many minutes before. The entrance to the laboratory is also near the front door to which Mr. Wade does have a key, so the risk of detection is minimal.”

Miss Salton blushed and looked at her shoes.

“It is now, unhappily, that disaster strikes”, I said. “Doubtless Mr. Wade had explained to Miss Salton that his discovery greatly increased the human scent, enabling the wearer to more likely attract a suitable mate. I would surmise that at an untimely moment Mr. Wade has to visit the water closet which we know is off the back-room. Miss Salton, fatally, decides to surprise her beau and applies most of the large bottle of the potion to herself.”

Our guest tried unsuccessfully to bite back a sob. I sent her a comforting look.

“You could not know that you had so exceeded the correct dosage”, I said ruefully. “Poor Mr. Wade came back into the room, walked up to you, took one sniff – and promptly had a heart-attack! The desire and the want overloaded the human body which, at the end of the day, is a fragile thing. Something that to-day's scientists might do well to remember.”

Doctor Adams lowered his glance at my reproof.

“What about the explosion?” he muttered to the fireside rug.

“In her panic to get out I would suggest that Miss Salton knocked over the remains of the solution”, I said. “We know because you told us that Mr. Wade often had several sets of chemicals on his table where he worked. While your compound seems to have some, ahem, success in its aims Doctor Adams, my scientist friend tells me that it is quite reactive and exposure to a quantity of more than one common chemical could result in an explosion. Extreme cold as we had that morning only increased the likelihood, so clearly that was what happened.”

“I hid behind the desk when I saw the black stuff bubbling”, Miss Salton said, her voice breaking as she spoke, “and that saved me from the worst of the blast. Poor Jake was just lying there dead as a door-nail. I got out through the broken wall down to the back alleyway.”

“Clearly not murder”, I said firmly, “as there was no premeditation let alone motive. Rather a tragic accident, and let us all regard it as such. I might suggest, doctor, that your researching energies be directed somewhere else in future?”

Our client nodded fervently.

MDCCCLXXXI

“Poor Miss Salton!” Watson said later once our guests had gone their separate ways. “She only wanted to surprise her beau, and look what happened!”

“Indeed”, I said. “People who mess with things they know not are asking for more than a _Little_ trouble.”

He looked at me sharply but I smiled innocently back at him. 

“How did you know that none of the three people who came to the house were involved?” he asked.

“Because when I checked under the oak desk, I smelled the scent of what I now know to be Miss Salton's perfume”, I said. “Neither of the men would wear it and as it is an exceptionally cheap and common fragrance I did not see someone as rich as the sole female visitor using it either. Let alone what she might be doing under the desk in the first place!”

“Do you think that they will ever manage to create something that will work like Per Ardua should have done?” he wondered. “After all that is what humanity is all about – finding your perfect partner.”

“Something that most people strive for”, I agreed.

MDCCCLXXXI

_Notes:_   
_1) Against expectations Old Carthusians (the club composed of former members of Charterhouse School in Godalming, Surrey) won 3-0 in the match played at the Kennington Oval. As of 2021 both clubs play in the Arthurian League for former school-member based clubs, which is not part of the Football League Pyramid._

MDCCCLXXXI


	5. A Great Little Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 1881. Sherlock's brother Logan has a favour to ask concerning Mr. Anthony 'Tiny' Little, whose family is being.... family. John hits the road and a certain consulting-detective narrowly manages to avoid committing fratricide.

That spring there was a reminder that some sides of London life can he rough. And that the consequences of traversing rules can be painful indeed.

I have mentioned Logan's glowering lover Ajax who had never really taken to me for some reason, I think perhaps because of his utter devotion to my brother and fear that I might inveigle Logan into something dangerous. In fact it was poor Ajax who was inveigled into something; he went to a client's house but the villain had arranged to have two of his friends there, and my cousin – it seems odd to think of him thus, but then he was only thirty-two and my first cousin – was badly beaten. Worse, the man who had enticed him there was a business associate of Father which pretty much sealed his doom – because Mother found out and she was Bloody Furious (a Level Nine). She confronted the fellow at a dinner and used her walking-stick to hit him somewhere only my mother would have aimed for, then sought out his two accomplices. She caught and decked one but the other fled first to Ireland and then the United States!

Hilton, being Hilton, had to get in on the act and remark that Ajax had 'got what he deserved'. So, appropriately enough, did Hilton when Mother made him pay all our cousin's hospital bills. And there was a curious side-effect of the whole thing in that my own relationship with my cousin improved when Watson, thinking fast on his feet, advised Mother that in his current condition poor Ajax really was not in any fit state to hear her read her stories as she had volunteered to come and read to him (i.e. he was unable to run away!). Instead Watson cannily suggested that if Hilton had the time to make remarks like he had done, then he had time to edit some of those stories!

I suppose that I should have reproved him for such a dastardly suggestion, but for some reason I never quite got round to it.

MDCCCLXXXI

Despite very generously securing my friend a week of chocolate desserts and also buying him those chocolate drops, my friend was still clearly annoyed with me over Doctor Adams's 'love-potion' and my having inveigled Brodie and Tiny into making him so scared. He spent most of that spring looking suspiciously at me, and it may have been the case that I allowed myself a very slight smile on the odd occasion or two. However I was very good to him; I settled for at most only two of his rashers around this time.

On most mornings. 

Most-ish?

It was therefore rather unfortunate, for Watson at least, that the mischievous Fates caused the great Mr. Little to be central to our next investigation. He and Logan came round the day after May Day and a certain doctor pouted deeply at their advent. Worse as far as he was concerned, he could say anything since Tiny (I still had to smile at the idea of the nearly seven-foot behemoth beside him being called by such a name) could pull one of the worst Sad Faces that had anyone giving in to him on whatever he wanted. Although his being seven foot tall, that usually happened pretty much anyway.

“I dropped in on Jack on the way over”, Logan said, looking at me disapprovingly. “Did you _have_ to give him that notebook so that he could jot down 'ideas' for when he gets the all-clear?”

“Yes”, I said simply. “Next question?”

He scowled at me for that. Not to worry; Watson had said that Ajax would be fine in a week or so, after which I might soon thereafter be minus one sibling!

“No Mark?” I asked. 

It was a little odd seeing this particular pairing in our rooms since, as I have mentioned, Mark and Logan were despite being two years apart in age physically similar, and now I was seeing Tiny with the 'wrong' Holmes. 

“He is out of commission just now”, Logan grinned, “thanks to this fellow. Tiny wanted to ask him a favour but he thought that he had better put him in a good mood first.”

I sighed. From my brother's smug look and Tiny's rueful one, poor Mark was more likely in the same hospital as Ajax now rather than in a good mood just now! Although that might be a better place than some; I had had to go round to our parents' house this past weekend and had only narrowly managed to avoid a story Mother had whipped up in record time about him and Tiny, 'Upstairs, Downstairs'. Fortunately I had been able to claim that I was meeting Watson for dinner immediately upon leaving, although rather oddly that had gotten me another of those dreadful 'hearts and flowers looks' as Moira calls them. I really was meeting Watson; it was worth buying him food for a week if it spared me any of Mother's writings!

“I am hoping that you can ride to the rescue for Tiny here”, Logan said. “There is I am afraid a chance that we might lose him.”

“How is that?” I asked. “I thought that you were happy here, Tiny?”

As ever the behemoth took a little time to formulate an answer. He was actually very well read but found long sentences and conversations in particular trying. Although in his 'business' I doubted that that was much of a problem, and Mark always said that he himself could barely talk after....

Some oversharing relative was going to be on the receiving end of another bumper box of 'supplies' very soon!

“My father runs mail-coaches through Lambourn in Berkshire, sirs”, Tiny said. “He wishes me to take over the company.”

"To run it, not to own it", Logan clarified.

“Surely that is not much of a long-term business?” Watson asked.

He was right of course; the railways were advancing everywhere. Who in their right minds would use an uncomfortable stage-coach or mail-coach when one could get to one's destination by a mode of transport that was at least four times faster, infinitely more comfortable _and_ much cheaper?¹

“I got Moira to look into the company for us”, Logan said. “Mr. Simon Little runs coaches from the town of Lambourn in all directions; west to Swindon, south to Newbury and north to Wantage. They used to run mail-coaches as well but now it all goes in the single coach, such is the decline even with the railways only running around the area. There have already been plans to connect Lambourn to the railway network at Newbury, which is the only route on which they make money these days. Such a line² would ruin them.”

I looked hard at my brother and he nodded very slightly. We could both see that Tiny was working at getting another sentence out and that we needed to wait for that. _And if Watson was drawing a clock-face in his notes just now then we would be having Words later!_

“My father”, the behemoth said hesitatingly, “he... he is not a good man.”

I was impressed that in so few words he could utterly condemn someone like that. If Mr. Anthony Little described someone as 'not a good man', then they were likely the devil incarnate. I knew that despite the behemoth's size he really was the most gentle of creatures; Mark often spoke of how he loved the simple things like reading and just being out in the country. The bastard had of course gone on to say that those things included walking up and down stairs while impaling a certain relative......

I decided that it was high time for a double dose of those 'supplies'.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Tiny?” I asked. 

He shook his head.

“There is the Snitch”, Logan said.

Watson and I both looked at him in surprise. I noticed how Tiny had reddened for some reason.

“Who is that?” Watson asked.

“His cousin Sly, Mr. Sylvester Little”, Logan said. “A horrible little worm; Tiny introduced me to him the one time he came to London. I have seen all sorts of low-life in my profession but my fists itched with that villain, especially the way that he spoke to my 'boy'. He was lucky that Mark was not there at the time or there would not have been anything left of him to crawl back to Berkshire!”

“Do you believe that he would wish to inherit the estate, Tiny?” I asked. 

The behemoth shook his head.

“He cannot do that”, Logan said. “The estate belonged to Tiny's mother, and although she married his father at a time when the law still said that a wife's property becomes that of her husband, she herself had inherited it on condition that it remain in _her_ family until a direct male descendant of the original fellow who got it back in the Civil War days wanted or needed to sell it. His father can live there but cannot sell the place, although I doubt that it is very profitable what with the way land is these days. Also he lives about a mile out of town, so there is little interest in anyone acquiring it for building land. The coaching business is all that is keeping the place afloat just now, and if this branch-line ever does materialize then that will be that.”

I wondered if ruining the business might well enable Tiny's father to be able to sell the estate and then spend the money on himself. It was not long ago that Mark had told me about the behemoth's mother leaving her husband and gone to live with her sister in Newbury. He had arranged for Tiny to go down and see that she was all right and he had said that the thanks he had got for that... yes, that triple bumper box of 'supplies _was_ called for. 

I might even be generous enough to go to my brother's funeral!

“I know that I should not use the word”, Logan said, looking suspiciously at me (I may or may not have been rubbing my hands together for no particular reason) "but thankfully Mr. Simon Little is dying. He hates Tiny with a passion so he is no great loss to humanity.”

I thought for some moments then turned to Tiny.

“Is your father aware of what you do for a living?” I asked. 

He smiled at my choice of words.

“My cousin has made sure of that, sirs!” he said forcibly.

“Then your father is doing this out of spite”, I said crossly, “merely to inconvenience someone that he does not wish to leave his estate to. He must be persuaded against such a course of action.”

The look on the behemoth's face was one of utter incredulity. But then he did not know just how I intended to go about that persuasion.

MDCCCLXXXI

Only a few days later and there were three of us at Paddington Station awaiting a train to Reading where we would have to change for the line to Newbury and thence the coach to Lambourn. I had not planned to bring Tiny to see his father – he did not deserve to have to do that unless it had been absolutely necessary – but despite his initial panic when I asked for him to come along I had managed to explain that we would be dropping him off at Newbury so that he could visit his mother, and that we would collect him from there with news of what we had done. Logan had demurred at it but I had insisted on paying him for a full day of his 'services'; I knew that he needed the money despite Mark's help and although he would not have been working because of my brother, it was just the right thing to do. The look of gratitude on the behemoth's face when I promised him that I would help resolve matters for him without his having to go to his father's house in person and he hugged me impulsively. 

It was worth not being able to breathe for several seconds while an annoying soon to be ex-friend smirked for England. I hated people who smirked too much!

At Newbury we said a temporary goodbye to Tiny and boarded the mail-coach. The Lambourn Valley was a beautiful area, although the uncomfortable journey by coach reminded me of why the railways were superior in every way. Hopefully the town would get its railway and prosper, but I had felt that we could hardly approach Mr. Simon Little for what I had in mind without first sampling the 'joys' of his transport network. Although judging from poor Watson's rather green complexion, we were most definitely returning by cab or carriage. I knew that he did not like sea-crossings and this was almost as bad as one of those!

'Sutton House' lay on the southern outskirts of the pleasant market town, and we were duly received by Tiny's poor excuse for a father. I could see why the gentle giant had been afraid of him; he was clearly one of those short bullying types who only ever found joy in someone else's misery. Which made what was about to befall him courtesy of me even more pleasurable. I exchanged a quick look with Watson and he nodded at me. The fellow before us was indeed not long for this world, and as I had already decided that was in no way a bad thing given his character. 

I pointedly waited for the servants to withdraw before I began.

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “and this is my colleague Doctor Watson. We are representing a certain gentleman who, for reasons that will shortly become clear to you, wishes to remain anonymous.”

He was clearly suspicious of that, as would I have been. I hurried on.

“I can however tell you that he is a ruler of one of the small but strategically important Arabian states along the eastern shores of the Arabian Peninsula”, I said. “To be blunt, he is not someone that the British government wishes to annoy in any way, especially given the precarious political situation as regards the Ottoman Empire to which he is nominally a vassal. He has however made a request which even the prime minister has felt to be, ahem, somewhat questionable, and it is that which has brought me here today as a matter of urgency. I only wish I could have had more time to make my inquiries, but the gentleman is leaving our shores first thing tomorrow morning and..... not to put too fine a point on it, he wishes to take something back home with him.”

_(It was strange that I had chosen that particular part of the world for my fiction because we would later be well-acquainted with a ruler from a state in that area)._

The villain was still looking at me suspiciously.

“What has this to do with me, sir?” he demanded.

“The item that he wishes to take with him is your son, Anthony”, I said.

I could read him like an unpleasant book; surprise, uncertainty and then pleasure at seeing the chance to rid himself of someone that he did not like. I thought of the happiness on the giant's face as we had seen him off to his mother's house; he deserved much better than this excrescence as a 'parent'.

“What is in it for me?” he demanded.

I managed to not feign surprise, but it was close. And Watson really did not need to cough like that.

“The gentleman is not the sort who is accustomed to people saying no”, I said carefully, “especially as in his country he can have them beheaded for so doing. Or for looking at him or one of his wives in a manner that he feels is unacceptable. He has not approached your son as of yet....”

“What does he want with the useless lummocks, anyway?” Mr. Little demanded, sipping his whisky (naturally he had not offered us a drink). 

I smiled.

“He needs another eunuch.”

The villain coughed violently into his drink. That had surprised him all right!

 _What?”_ he demanded.

“Someone to supervise all those wives”, I said. “Putting it as delicately as possible, your son's, ahem, proclivities make it unlikely that he would be interested in any of them himself, although my client has said that if he ever did..... well, as the music-hall song goes, 'it is never too late to castrate, mate'.”

The cruel light in the fellow's eyes was sickening. Time to move in for the kill.

“The only problem”, I said, “is his inheritance.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Little asked.

“When you pass, this estate becomes the property of your son”, I said. “You know how the newspapers are in this country especially with their interest in society and the amount of time and space they devote to the happenings among the great and the good! (I shot a quick glance at Watson, who blushed for some reason). “Someone is _bound_ to talk and some tiresome journalist will track him down, which will cause a most tiresome diplomatic incident. The government would _not_ be pleased, to put it mildly. Unless of course your son can be prevented from inheriting.”

“I tried that”, the villain said sourly. “Lawyers told me the damn will was water-tight, worse luck.”

“I know”, I said. “Fortunately in the short time that I had to plan this visit I was able to institute some inquiries into your family, and they came up with a potential way round that.”

He looked at me curiously.

“What way?” he asked. “How can you know better than my lawyers?”

“Your _English_ lawyers, sir”, I corrected. “However, this matter involves another country's laws. Your estate was originally granted by King Charles the Second to your ancestor Mr. Adonijah Little in the year 1661. His eldest son Elisha later married a Scotswoman and went to live with her in her homeland, to Mr. Adonijah's grave displeasure, so he added a clause to the inheritance rules that if someone inherited and was then out of the country or subsequently departed it, they would lose their entitlement and the estate would revert to the next in line.”

“Smart fellow”, Mr. Little said.

“Arguably he was”, I said. “Unfortunately for his scheming he was outwitted by the tide of history; he lived until 1708 just after the Act of Union when England and Scotland became one, thus negating the clause in his son's case; I understand some other relative contested the inheritance but lost. Mr. Elisha was thus able to sell his Scottish lands and return to Berkshire. However, if your son were to inherit the estate and _then_ leave the country, he would be debarred from inheriting so any nosy journalist could have no reason to be interested in him. Or.....”

I hesitated for effect.

“Or it might be the case that he left involuntarily”, I said. “Not that he would ever make it out of.... wherever he might or might not be taken against his will. Let us just say that there will be more than adequate amounts of sand, a lot of gentlemen wearing white, and maybe even the occasional camel.”

The cruel look on the fellow's face was sickening me. I reached into my brief-case and produced some legal papers I had just happened to have had on me.

“That is the only way around your problem”, I said, “although I am afraid that it requires an element of trust on your part. If you revoked your own claim on the estate and forced your son's inheritance, then the minute that he leaves the country – which might or might not be at a quarter past nine tomorrow morning – he would lose his claim and you would regain control. However I understand that that is a lot to ask....”

“Where do I sign?” he demanded.

MDCCCLXXXI

“But what will you do when he contacts his lawyers to check up on this?” Watson asked as we drove at a sedate pace back towards Newbury and the train home.

“I have arranged for an actor friend of mine posing as a clerk from the company to call in by chance tomorrow, ostensibly on his way down to Newbury”, I said, “and he will be able to certify all the documents as valid. Mr. Little will also get a reassuring message from him in about a week's time that further checks have shown that his son has indeed quitted the country. He can depart this world in the knowledge that his foul actions have achieved their ends, and will then have an eternity looking up from Hell to see how he was duped.”

“What will Tiny do with the estate, I wonder?” he asked.

“Logan was afraid that he would want to live on it”, I said, “but he says that he wants to sell it and give the money to his mother. He is happy in his life at the moment, because he trusts Mark and Logan to look after him. He is a child really.”

“Some child!” he scoffed. “He is huge!”

“Indeed”, I smiled. “Enough to put the fear of God into anyone – _including even doctors who meddle with love-potions?”_

_And there it was, another glorious pout!_

MDCCCLXXXI

Mr. Simon Little did not live long to enjoy his feeling of having disinherited his son, dying less than a month after we had met him. Tiny succeeded to the estate and with the help of some lawyers that I provided was able to sell it and see his mother comfortably set for the rest of her own life, a happy one as she had found someone much more worthy of her affections and soon after married them. Her new husband was even accepting of his stepson although as Watson perhaps correctly remarked, who would not be seeing that coming towards them? And we would be meeting Tiny again just over a year from now and for the last time in a long while, as it might truly be said that his ship was about to come in.

Unfortunately for Watson, as things turned out. And for someone else in my family.

MDCCCLXXXI

_Notes:_   
_1) Modern comparisons are difficult, but before the days of steam it cost roughly the same to travel from London to Brighton by stage-coach as it did to stay in a decent hotel at the popular resort for a whole month._   
_2) The Lambourn Valley Railway was incorporated in 1883, two years after this story is set. Work however proceeded slowly and it was not until 1900 that the first train ran. The independent company lasted only five years before being forced to sell out to the Great Western Railway; the branch's dead-end nature soon rendered it vulnerable to road competition and it closed in 1960. There were efforts to reopen it as a heritage line but British Railways managed to prevent that._

MDCCCLXXXI


	6. Farewell, My Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 1881. Sherlock is asked by a lady to possibly prevent her son from doing something rash, but there is more to her request than it seems. And it will end in a death.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as the Abbey School case.

I was in that curious part of my career when I could now refuse lesser cases but sometimes still had to take (or at least find an excuse not to take) those from unpleasant people like Lord Howard in our Staffordshire case, as they had the connections which they could have used to damage me if they were offended (yes, Watson had pointed out that I did have the option of setting Mother on them, but one did not use the deadliest weapons unless absolutely necessary). Hence the day after our return from Berkshire when I was on my fourth straight coffee while Watson poured me a fifth one.

The reason for my shaking hand was an encounter with Miss Dee Whiteacre, one of the leading actresses of her day who had come round and _demanded_ that I stop the critics writing bad things about her. Quite how I was supposed to do this was unclear, and besides, I had seen her 'acting' and had found it quite insufferable. She had taken over the lead-role in one of the prominent plays of the time but, being Miss Dee Whiteacre, had 're-imagined' it such that it was almost unrecognizable. I had been most disappointed as I had seen the original and she was but a poor _pastiche_ of it, so her stroppy attitude had gotten her nowhere.

Which was why I was now on my fifth coffee while Watson poured me my sixth. I generously supposed that he was not so bad a friend, all things considered.

MDCCCLXXXI

It was two days after the unpleasant Miss Whiteacre had departed when I found myself in the odd position of potentially working myself out of a solution to our approaching homelessness problem, as Miss Hellingly was due to decamp to the United States with her sister the pungent Mrs. Hall in some two years' time. They had purchased a house over there but now there were problems and the Americans were being 'difficult'. It was Watson who told me of it, and I wondered why our landlady had not mentioned it to me directly.

“Perhaps she thought that if it fell through and she ended up staying here”, he suggested, “then you and I would not have to move.”

“That would be morally wrong, to save ourselves some effort at the cost of the ruination of their plans”, I said. “I shall get Mark to contact some people over there and see what they can do.”

“Or we could send your mother over there to read them some of her stories!” he teased.

I scowled at him for that.

“You are terrible!” I sighed.

“I suppose that that was a little cruel”, he admitted.

“It was”, I agreed.

“And there are rules banning deadly weapons in war......”

I gave him such a look!

All right, I had had much the same thought myself, but that was his fault! He was a bad influence on me!

MDCCCLXXXI

It was a few days later, and Mark's contact had come through even faster that I could have expected. Just an initial inquiry over there had caught a crooked estate-agent trying to make extra money from the sale; he was now in gaol and the embarrassed Americans were expediting the transfer of the property much faster than before.

“Lady Stoppingham wishes to call on us”, I said as I looked across at my friend. “An address near a place called Wootton Wawen in Warwickshire. 'Stoppingham Hall, formerly The Abbey School'.”

Although I was sure that he would know everything about this unseen personage from his extremely infrequent glances at the society-pages and society-magazines, I detected a definite hesitation before he spoke. Odd.

“Lady Esther Stoppingham is the wife of Lord Keiran”, he said. “He is a pompous old fellow who sits, or rather sleeps, in the House of Lords. She is I think fifteen years his junior and they have three sons. They own the Hall which was in the family before the Reformation but was lost under that blackguard King Henry The Eighth; it was indeed The Abbey School until about forty years ago when Lord Keiran's father bought it back off the school and they moved to nearby Henley-in-Arden.”

I looked at him expectantly.

“It is rather sad”, he said. “The eldest son, Lord Arthur, is twenty now but had a bad accident while working on one of the estate farms and lost a leg. He was very wild growing up – I think from what the reports both said and did not say that that was what caused his accident – but he is a reformed character now. Lord Kieran's other son is Albert who must be about fourteen now has reportedly always been a much calmer fellow, and they have a third son who they adopted from some distant branch of the family, Lord Ramage who is about twenty-five. They live less than half a mile from the village and....”

He stopped and went bright red. Rather belatedly, he had seen the trap.

“Shut up!” he grumbled.

“I did not say anything”, I said innocently, with a smile that might or might not have annoyed him still more. “We had better have this lady up, and see what she requires of us.”

He looked a little mollified by my use of the plural pronoun, but that was definitely a pout forming. Ah well.

MDCCCLXXXI

Lady Esther Stoppingham was a well-dressed lady of about forty years of age, above the average height and with carefully coiffured chestnut hair. I was impressed; she almost made it to the fireside chair before simpering at me, but luckily I saw neither that nor the eye-roll from some medical personage whose pout had somehow gotten even deeper.

One of these days some unlucky female visitor was going to burst into flames under that glare!

“I am not sure if you can help me, Mr. Holmes”, the lady said. “I have very little in the way of facts, but I am sure that something bad is going to happen to my youngest son, and soon.”

“That would be Lord Albert”, I said, risking a slight smile across to my scowling watcher of the society-pages. “Watson tells me that he is about fourteen years of age. What is the problem, exactly?”

Oh dear. Another pause. Why did people feel the need to try to withhold things from me when they requested my help? It only made things more difficult and I usually found out in the end anyway.

“Albert wishes to train to be a armourer”, she said. “Kieran was horrified to start with, especially with our eldest son Arthur being, well, incapacitated. After his accident it.... it does not seem that he will perpetuate the dynasty so it will all come to Albert. Kieran did not like the idea of his working in a potentially dangerous industry but he eventually agreed to it. As you may know he attends The Abbey School but even his teachers admit that he it not really of an educational mind.”

That did surprise me. Not the school part; I knew that continuing the bloodline was generally the most important consideration of our leading families, and a father with only one blood-son left would not normally have exposed him to any unnecessary risk. Unless...... hmm.

“You have a third son?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Ramage is twenty-five and a distant cousin”, she said. “Not a blood Stoppingham although he took the name when we adopted him; his mother was married to Kieran's third cousin William and he was the issue of an earlier marriage, adopted by William. We took the boy in when they both passed.”

I did not know why, but I sensed that there was something more to what she was telling us. Although as yet I had only a vaguely uneasy sense as to what. I definitely felt that she was right to have called on us, and that we needed to be in Warwickshire as soon as possible.

“Is your husband accepting of your calling on us?” I asked.

She reddened slightly.

“I did not ask him”, she said. “Kieran is very set in his ways and would certainly have made a fuss. He is much better when presented with what they call a _fait accompli_ ; he will just pout for a few days then all will be well.”

I tried – look, I really, really did! – but I could not stop myself from shooting a pointed glance across at a certain medical personage in the room. A certain blushing medical personage.

“I have one minor matter on hand, my lady”, I said, definitely not smiling in any way, shape or form, “but it only necessitates a short visit to somewhere not far away. Once I have done that I promise that I will attend to you at Stoppingham Hall.”

“Thank you, sir”, she smiled.

MDCCCLXXXI

The most annoying part of this matter was that I knew that I would not be able to have Watson with me for it. He was as I have said working almost full-time at the surgery as of late, but although one might have expected demand for his services to tail off in the warmer spring weather he was if anything busier than usual, mainly because one of his fellow doctors was ill and another was incapacitated having fallen down some stairs having tripped over a toy left out by his son. At least my friend's bank-account would be looking better as a result; I knew how he always fretted over his finances.

I saw him off to the surgery before heading over to see Moira. I had as I said an uneasy sense as to just where this case might be heading and I was sure that she would be able to confirm or deny that. I also took the opportunity to ask her if she knew anything about why my friend might have had that strange reaction to our latest client, which question elicited me one of her most pitying looks.

“What?” I asked.

“Did you not read the file that Mother had on the doctor?” she sighed.

“I thought it rather intrusive”, I said.

“Intrusive is what I do”, she said shortly. “He has a passion for Shakespeare, as you know, and has an ambition to go and see his house in Stratford-on-Avon some day. This place you are going to is not that far north of it, although you will likely have to go via Birmingham and then double back to get there.”

I felt reproved, and blushed. Watson was my friend, and I really should not have passed up the chance to enable him to see somewhere that he liked. I would make a note and make sure that our next case anywhere near that town was one I would take advantage of.

MDCCCLXXXI

Although I generally prefer town to country, I have to say that the village of Wootton Wawen was rather charming. Situated where the road turned sharply north there was an attractive church next to Wootton Hall, although my own great house destination lay a mile north of the village just off the Henley Road. 

Stoppingham Hall was a small but well-presented place, and the people in it were much as had been described including Lord Kieran who scowled at my presence but had clearly been brought to grudgingly accept it. There was one gentleman who I had not known to expect; an absurdly tall yet spindly fellow called Mr. Luke Larcombe, who it turned out was the amputee Lord Arthur's personal attendant. And, from the closeness with which they stood when they thought themselves unobserved, likely something rather more. Hmm.

Lady Esther had been right about her eldest son being unlikely to produce offspring, and I wondered if she knew both reasons. Her bringing me in on this matter was looking more and more curious.

I did not take to Lord Ramage, the adopted son, who reminded me of young Thomas (Tudor) Davenoke from my time in Cambridge, another fellow who had allowed his good fortune to go to his head. Lord Ramage was clearly resentful of my presence and pointedly went out of his way to avoid me, which heavy cross I somehow managed to bear.

My main concern was that Moira would not be able to find out what I wanted in time, but as usual she did not fail me. Two days into my stay at the Hall there was a couriered package which I had to sign for, and it had everything that I needed to effect a solution. Just as well; Lord Kieran had agreed that his youngest son could quit school and Lord Albert was due to start work in Birmingham some two weeks from now. I had been called in just in time.

MDCCCLXXXI

I was not surprised when, on talking to the servants, I found that their opinions of the family matched closely with mine. Larcombe was taciturn to the point of rudeness but when challenged, he did admit that he had suspicions about Lord Arthur's 'accident' and that there were certain farm-workers I might to well to talk to. The man was clearly catching Watson's cynicism even at this distance.

He was also right.

MDCCCLXXXI

That left just the school, who I knew had the power to delay my plans by insisting on the rules for a departing pupil being followed. Fortunately Moira had been able to provide me with certain information about the headmaster and his deputy – they really did not look the sort to have gone in for that sort of thing – and they were more than happy to expedite the process. Especially after I casually mentioned that cased like these sometimes needed a _feather-_ light touch!

It was also timely that, just as I was about how to bring things to a successful conclusion, I heard of the strange incident concerning the grocery shop-owner's son. The boy had made a delivery to the Hall some time back and had made fun of 'Hop-along' as he had called Lord Arthur. There had been more than a little fuss when an angry Larcombe had nearly killed him in a fit of anger, but as was so often the case in matters like this the thing had been covered up and Lord Kieran had paid for the boy's hospital treatment. Lady Esther told me this, and I was sure that I was not mistaken that it was not a coincidence she did so just moments after my package had arrived.

MDCCCLXXXI

I asked to see Lord Kieran and his adopted son the following day. Larcombe had taken Lord Arthur over to Warwick for the day and Lord Albert had gone out for a long walk.

“I do not see why you are here, Mr. Holmes”, the nobleman said grumpily. “Just earning a fat fee for doing nothing.”

“I hardly think preventing an attack on your youngest son counts as nothing, sir”, I said. “But I will understand if you wish not to pay me for my time. Given the circumstances, _you_ can hardly be expected to be happy with what I about to tell you.”

His wariness only increased at that.

“Get on with it!” Lord Ramage said disinterestedly.

“For one thing, I have a confession signed by a Mr. Michael Winter.”

The nobleman looked confused, but his son had turned deathly pale. He rallied quickly enough, though.

“You are bluffing, sir”, he snorted.

“The Mr. Michael Winter with whom you conspired to cause the injury that cost Lord Arthur his leg?” I asked dryly. “Then paid for him to flee to the town of Chattanooga, in the state of Tennessee? Relations between our two great nations may not be good just now, but Mr. Winter knows that he could easily be extradited back to stand trial in England, and that he would be facing a long time in gaol as well as certain ruin. He has admitted to your having paid him of, sir, and I also have the bank statements to back his words up.”

The nobleman stared aghast at his son.

“Why, Ram?” he demanded. “After all we did for you!”

“Because he is your son”, I said. “And he knows that.”

My words should have meant nothing to him, but both men looked horrified. As well they should. I turned to the nobleman.

“Most men have one unfortunate dalliance in their wilder days”, I said, trying not to blush. “Yours was with a lady who, rather absent-mindedly, did not think to tell you that she was engaged at the time to your cousin. When she and her husband died and left their son – _your_ son – an orphan, you adopted him. That was an act of Christian charity but one which was set to rebound on you, for your son grew to suspect that he was so like you in some ways and, one day, he found out the truth.”

It was like a train-crash, the horror on the nobleman's face as he looked at his son – really his son – and understood.

“You were trying to get rid of Arthur and Albert!” he exclaimed. “Lord help us!”

“I think that your wife noticed something amiss with this villain's actions”, I said. “Not directly, but it registered with her subconscious and made her uneasy; what the fairer sex call intuition. She called on me because she thought that the worst might happen and, had your younger son gone to work around dangerous weapons, I am sure that an accident would have been 'arranged'.”

“He is lying, father!” Lord Ramage said scornfully. “This is just words!”

I smiled at him.

“Then I am sure that you can explain why you recently paid one Mr. Sidney Gilson, the manager of where your brother is about to start work, a substantial amount of money for services rendered?”

The fellow looked frantically around, then stared hopefully at his father.

“I will have Coughton get some money for you”, Lord Kieran said shortly. “You will leave this estate before sunset. I will not see you again, as I do not recognize you.”

The young man shot me a hate-filled glare, then left. Lord Kieran shook his head in shock. I moved over to the window.

“Poor Arthur”, he said. “What will he say when I tell him?”

I sighed.

“I am afraid that that moment will be sooner rather than later”, I said, looking out the window and down the drive. “Lord Arthur and.... Mr. Larcombe are back.”

He may not have been the brightest nobleman on the block, but he quickly put together just what that meant. For a moment I wondered if he might try to object, but then he nodded.

“Justice will be done”, he said softly.

MDCCCLXXXI

There was a little explaining to do when the battered remains of Lord Ramage Stoppingham were discovered in the waiting-room of Wootton Wawen Railway-Station, having been stabbed multiple times. On a possibly related issue, the silent Larcombe had to have some treatment for grazes and minor abrasions, but luckily Lady Stoppingham was able to effect those without having to call in the local doctor. The seemingly senseless killing of Lord Ramage Stoppingham was never solved, and Warwickshire Police quickly ended their investigation as there were no clues at all. Justice was done. 

Lord Arthur resigned his place in the succession when his brother Albert married some seven years later and started a family of his own. Today (1936) Albert's eldest son, another Arthur, holds sway at Stoppingham Hall. Few people notice his one-legged uncle who lives quietly in one of the gatehouses with his attendant, as they rarely seem to leave the estate. One supposes that they find something to do in order to pass the time there.

MDCCCLXXXI


	7. The Resident Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June 1881. Sherlock investigates a case that is a little too close to home while John tells a little white lie. Or at least, a little purple-yellow lie.

Watson and I had just returned from seeing Mr. Gilbert's and Mr. Sullivan's comic opera 'Patience'¹. It had been an amusing skit aimed very clearly at the then in vogue aesthetics movement, or as it was more commonly called, 'art for art's sake'. I did not understand why such a thing needed to be criticized and said as much as we were being driven back to Cramer Street afterwards.

“It is the extremes more than the movement itself”, Watson said. “Beautiful art of any sort is to be admired, but when you get something that is totally overblown and artists who seem to think that they should be well-regarded because they can pretend that what they have produced is art because they say that it is, that starts to annoy people. But then again, the alternative where you get so much meaning that the art turns into some boring lesson is just as bad.”

I supposed that he was right on that. Mother in particular liked to collect works of art with some meaning which she would then weave into one or other of her dreadful stories and worse, use a visitor to the house looking at the object to tell them about. 

I shuddered despite the warm spring evening. I had to pass that statue of Hercules every time I went through our hall!

“Your mother's stories”, Watson guessed. “We are nearly home, and there will be coffee.”

I smiled at him. He was a good friend, really.

MDCCCLXXXI

I mentioned some time back that, for obvious reasons, I did not wish for Watson to encounter too many of my family members at one go for both his sanity and mine. Unfortunately my next case would involve some four of my family members two of whom he would encounter for the first time. But then he knew what he was getting himself into when he moved in with me.

Yes he did. He must have read about us all in those society-pages that he hardly ever glances at every morning for nearly half an hour 'because the newspaper just happened to have fallen open at those pages'. Again!

I might add at this point that I was ever so slightly worried that the one family member Watson had only met on a small number of occasions was Mother herself. And I still got that dreadful 'hearts and flowers look' as Moira called it whenever I mentioned my friend, which was frankly odd. Although at least Mother had dropped giving me hints about getting married some time in the near future (I kept that framed Wedding Order Of Service she had once given in a drawer; one never 'lost' gifts from Mother as she had a bad habit of asking to see them later and did not take well to excuses for their non-appearance). Perhaps she thought that Watson might introduce me to some lady from his job, although given what he said about his female patients that was an unattractive thought indeed.

My friend's first encounter with one of my siblings that summer was with Anna, my incredibly nosy and, as both Hilton and Randall had found out, also incredibly sharp of hearing and incredibly hard-hitting elder sister. Although a very attractive lady in the traditional Victorian style, she had alighted upon a rather dull banker fellow called Mr. Bernard Thompson who was some three years her senior, and they had just announced their engagement (as if he had a choice in that, which was something I would only have dared say at my current safe distance!). As a daughter in a majority male generation (she was some years younger than both Hope and Moira, and had little sympathy with the manly Evelith), Anna had a way of acting as Mother's agent at times, so when Watson told me that she had bumped into him at a post-office that was at least three miles from anywhere she had any reason to be near, I was immediately suspicious. But he seemed to have liked her which was good, so I let the incident pass.

The two siblings who I had more reason to be concerned about were my brothers Hilton and Randall, eight and four years my senior respectively. Both were far too full of themselves with little if any justification; Randall had somehow reached manhood without acquiring any understanding of the word 'no' (although when Mother used it, he mysteriously always acquired an amazingly rapid if equally amazingly temporary grasp of the concept!), while Hilton was married to poor Rachael who had given birth to their fifth child, another daughter this time called Ruth, at the start of the year. I often wondered which of the two pests would be the one to cross me at some point in my career.

The answer would turn out to be both of them. With disastrous consequences all round – but more so for them, thankfully.

MDCCCLXXXI

I had a string of minor matters throughout much of June, so I was not always in the best of tempers around that time. Watson on the other hand was for once looking almost cheerful; at the start of the month his story about the 'Gloria Scott' case had begun to be published in the 'Strand' magazine in six instalments. It had received a very positive reception and after only the second instalment he had been approached by the well-known publishers Brett & Burke. They were currently assembling a book containing twenty-four detective stories each written by a different writer and one had pulled out at the last minute, so they wished to use his story. I wondered if he might feel a little irked at being brought on as a 'substitute' in such a way but when he told me about it I observed that their payment was surprisingly generous, so given the usual parlous state of his finances I gave my consent. The book sold well and he received an initial payment which in itself made him smile. Although I doubted his claim that seeing his account so far into the black really had given his bank-manager palpitations!

The book's sales were pushed by reviews which were extremely positive, two critics singling out his work for particular praise. Unhappily this coincided with my having dealings with Randall, who was getting ever closer to being tipped out of the Cramer Street window if he kept up his attitude when he came round. I was therefore less than my usual cheery self when Watson asked me what I had thought of his writings, and I had remarked that he was of an acceptable standard but tended towards the over-dramatic. This was a perfectly accurate remark and I did not know why he had gone off to his room looking so cross.

I found out the following day when Moira came round with some information that I had asked for. I mentioned my exchange with my friend and she looked at me in exasperation for some reason.

“If my hand was not still sore from slapping that idiot Randall the other day, I would use it on you!” she said shortly. “He manages one non-career achievement in his life then you go and decry it. What is wrong with you?”

I would have scowled at her remarks but she was bigger than me and I was afraid of her, so I did not.

“What I said was perfectly true”, I said.

“So you would go up to Mother and tell her what you think of her stories, then?” she asked dryly.

“That is different”, I protested. “In that case, the difference between honesty and suicide!”

“It is like when I ask Jamie about a new dress”, she said. “He may think that I look like an explosion in a paint factory, but he would never say as much. Although I always know, of course.”

“Again, he does not wish to sustain bodily injury.... I began.

She looked set to advance on me, and I shuffled backwards nervously.

“You be nice to him!” she said firmly. “Or I will tell Mother!”

Now that was just cruel. Also, damnably affective!

MDCCCLXXXI

The annoying thing was that she was right, and worse, she knew that she was right from the smirk as she was leaving. I thought about it for some time then remembered something that had happened the previous week. Perhaps.... yes.

I went down and took a cab to Baker Street where there was an excellent jeweller run by one Mr. Abrahams. Watson and I had taken a long walk in Regent's Park and had dropped by there on our way home last week, and I remembered something that he had seen in there. I had been looking to buy a gold necklace for Anna's engagement and I had noted my friend being oddly entranced by a large silver gentleman's bracelet that was decorated rather strangely. I had heard my friend asking about it and Mr. Abrahams explaining to him that it was the letters O, V and A repeated for the saying _omnia vincit amor_ – love conquers all. Despite the mushy sentiment he had been entranced by it, but there was no way even with his recent literary successes that he could have afforded such a bauble without possibly being responsible for his bank-manager having a full-on heart-attack.

MDCCCLXXXI

Watson came in a little after his time, clearly having bad a bad day from his sagging shoulders. He barely noticed me and almost missed the card on the table with 'Sorry' on it. Clearly puzzled, he removed it and opened the box. 

Stunned silence.

“Hullo. Watson.”

He stared at me in bewilderment.

“I would wish you to wear that on special occasions”, I said carefully, still not approaching him. “Whenever I see it I will be reminded of the value of your friendship, which I know that I do not always appreciate. I am sorry that I was so unfeeling in what I said about your hard work.”

He sniffed (manfully, of course), and the look of relief in his face when a knock at the door indicated the arrival of dinner was a sight to behold. There may have been some more (still manly) sniffing throughout that evening, but I did not hear it so there cannot have been.

MDCCCLXXXI

As I have said before, our Cramer Street house was owned by Mrs. Evadne Hall whose fragrant (and pungent) presence had so alarmed us both upon our first encounter with her. The way in which she had batted her eyelashes at me had been frankly vomit-inducing; I always knew when she had visited because even two floors up my eyes started watering because of the lilac water that she presumably bathed in every morning. Fortunately she had indeed concerned herself primarily with her own house in Belgravia leaving the management of Cramer Street to her sister Miss Letitia Hellingly. A much smaller (and mercifully far less pungent) character, she always looked almost apologetic when either Watson or I handed over our weekly rent. Her servants kept our rooms adequately clean and her cook was passable with occasional bursts of quality, but she herself rarely ventured upstairs, confining herself to her own suite at the back of the house. 

Miss Hellingly was one of those quiet ladies who generally manage to get through life without bothering anyone, so when she approached me with a small matter one day I was quite surprised. Especially as it was a day when her gentleman-friend who she was seeing had dropped by; she made a special effort with her appearance on those days which always included wearing her favourite ruby brooch (I had advised her to have Mr. Abrahams professionally clean it, which it had definitely needed). 

She had only just finished telling me about her problem when Watson returned, early for once, and he looked surprised at her being there. Naturally that brought our conversation to a close (two Men in a room was clearly too much for our landlady to bear) and she all but fled.

“It may be that our landlady has provided us with a potential case”, I said. 

Watson looked curiously after the rapidly-vanishing landlady, then nodded and walked over to the mirror. I bit back a smile.

“Anything of interest?” he asked.

“I am not sure”, I said as he checked himself over. He had had a letter from his brother that morning which, as per usual, had teased him about the one subject he was sensitive over, to wit his advancing years (I knew that because this was the third time he had looked in the mirror for no good reason that day). “Miss Hellingly is concerned over her newest tenant, the gentleman who has taken Room Three. She is a little paranoid simply because he refuses to admit the maid to his rooms, and insists that his washing is collected and returned outside his door.”

“He probably just values his privacy”, Watson said. “Knowing her habit of eavesdropping at every opportunity, I would wager she thinks that he is a secret axe-murderer!”

“Our landlady is also quite observant”, I said, thinking that he was both far too catty and worse, dangerously verging on being right. “She may or may not stoop to listening at keyholes, but on passing the room of the gentleman in question the other day, she was certain that she heard a lady's voice.”

“Was that when she passed for the fifth or the sixth time?” he quipped.

I shook my head at him. I had been thinking much the same but that was not the point here.

“A reputation is important for a landlady”, I reminded him. “We all know how easily gossip can get put about.”

“Then she should scotch it at once”, he said. “If she really thinks that that sort of thing is going on in her own house then she would be fully within her rights to give the tenant a week's notice.”

“I think with the element of romance”, I said, “she is perhaps a little wary.”

I did not know why, but that seemed to make my friend uneasy for some reason. Which was odd; I knew the gentleman who Miss Hellingly was seeing and he was a doctor, plus it was all above-board as it had already been arranged that he would be joining her when she went to the United States in two years' time, and they would get married as soon as possible after their arrival. I would have thought Watson would have been happy for her. After all, it was not like our landlady was romantically interested in someone else.

MDCCCLXXXI

Two weeks later the carelessness of a maid added a whole new aspect to the mystery of Room Three.

The Bloomsbury Surgery lay in a row of high-class houses, and on the afternoon in question a fire occurred at the property next door. It later emerged that this had been due to a maid leaving a fire unattended. Fortunately London's finest were soon on the scene and were able to douse the flames although the house in question was somewhat damaged. The firemen then asked that the doctors quit the surgery until structural engineers had checked it for damage, which meant that for once Watson returned early to Cramer Street.

I had been out for a walk as well as investigating a small matter for Logan (who really was in a dreadful state; there was a definite list when he was sat down, at least from what I could see with a now fully restored to health Ajax smothering him as per usual). When I arrived back it did not take me long to work out that something had happened; my friend really was dreadful when it came to concealing things.

“What has upset you, Watson?” I asked after dinner. Miss Hellingly's cook had for once surpassed herself with a curried meat dish that had been divine and we were both sat by the fire feeling comfortably full (the ice-cream had even been chocolate yet my friend had not devoured it with his normal gusto, although he had of course finished off mine). “You have been off ever since I got home.”

“Did you go out on a case today?” he said, clearly trying to deflect my inquiry. 

“I had a small matter for Logan or rather one of his 'boys', then took a walk”, I said. “My occupation is oftentimes sedentary so I need the exercise.”

He instinctively pulled in his own gut. I wondered why one person coming to the house had perturbed him so.

“You are upset over the lady who visited Room Three earlier this afternoon?” I asked.

He looked at me in shock.

“Not exactly who I was expecting”, he muttered.

“A slightly shorter than average height lady wearing a blue dress, with either red or dyed hair.”

He looked at me in confusion for some reason.

“Miss Hellingly did not say who it was?” he asked.

“Our estimable landlady is away visiting her pungent sister, remember?” I said. “Although better that than the latter coming here.”

“Then how could you know....?”

“There was a blue thread caught in the bannister which was not there when I left after lunch”, I said. “There was also a single red hair on the carpet leading to the door when I returned. The visitor was obviously very very well-off.”

He still looked confused for some reason, as if there was something that I was not saying. How odd.

“She came in her own carriage”, I said. “A four-wheeled vehicle was parked for some considerable time in front of our house, long enough to leave an indentation in the road surface and a small paint marking smeared onto the kerb. Our city's hansom drivers are not sufficiently paid to go to the expense of painting their vehicle's wheels in bright colours.”

“You know who it was!” he said exasperatedly.

I stared at him. Now I was the one confused.

“Do I?” I asked.

“It was your sister Anna!”

I stared at him in shock. Anna was as far as I knew in her Knightsbridge house, planning for her wedding with the dull Mr. Thompson.

“You are sure?” I asked.

“I saw your father's carriage outside”, he told me. “And I saw her come out of the room.”

I remembered now; Mother had ordered their carriage to be repainted recently. With bright-green wheels. Oh!

“Did she see you?” I asked.

He reddened.

“Yes”, he said. “I am afraid that she did.”

I thought for a moment. There had to be an explanation for this. Somewhere.

“I think that I should pay a call on my sister tomorrow”, I said at last. “I am sorry Watson, but in the circumstances I would rather do it alone.”

“It is family”, he assured me. “I understand.”

I smiled at him, but inside I felt decidedly uneasy. What was going on here?

MDCCCLXXXI

A visit to my sister cleared several things up, and I now needed to find a way of effecting justice upon those who deserved it. However there was to be a twist in the sequence of events.

It happened just as Watson and I were starting out for a walk the very next day. We had barely shut the door to our room behind us when there was a terrible scream from the corridor below. We both raced down and found Miss Hellingly leaning back against the bannister, looking as white as a ghost. We escorted her down to her own room where Watson poured her a large brandy. Eventually some colour returned to her cheeks. 

“Mr. Holmes!” she gasped. “It was.... horrible!”

“What was?” I asked.

“That.... 'thing' in Room Three!” she gasped. “I was making my rounds just now...”

 _Eavesdropping as per usual_ , I could see Watson thinking. I looked reprovingly at him and he blushed fiercely.

(All right, I had been thinking exactly the same, but that was not the point here.)

“... and _he_ opened the door to fetch in his paper. It was frightful! His face was all wrapped up like.... like... like one of those terrible Egyptian mummy things!”

Watson poured her another brandy which she downed in two goes. Quite impressive, really.

“He could just be an injured soldier from one of the wars”, Watson pointed out gently. “We doctors often bandage up those gentlemen's faces completely to prevent wounds getting infected, you know.”

She looked at us both suspiciously.

“Then why did Mr. Holmes's sister say that he was her brother?” she demanded.

Oops.

“She may have been lying”, I suggested. 

“I need Eric”, she said, to my friend's evident confusion.

“Who is 'Eric'?” he asked, causing our visitor to turn a shade of red that nearly matched her dress.

“”My..... my gentleman-friend”, she admitted reluctantly. “He is a doctor like your good self.”

I could see Watson slowly putting two and two together, then he blushed for some reason. I did not know why; Doctor Eric Frodsham was hardly ever going to set the world on fire as the saying goes but he was a sound enough fellow, and would be a loss to England when he emigrated.

“You should send a servant round and ask him to call”, I suggested. “I think that in the circumstances he would wish to be here for you.”

She nodded vigorously and we left her in her room. Watson was smiling for some reason as we headed out

MDCCCLXXXI

Moira was able to supply the last piece of the jigsaw-puzzle that was our Resident Patient, and I returned to Cramer Street one evening feeling both annoyed yet also triumphant. Someone – some two – would pay for this!

“My father is coming round later”, I told Watson once dinner was over. 

“Would you like me to step out?” he offered. 

“No.”

He looked surprised at my terseness but said nothing. I sighed and stared darkly into the fire.

MDCCCLXXXI

It seemed an eternity before Father was shown in by a clearly impressed Miss Hellingly (I fervently hoped that she would not embarrass herself by patrolling the corridor during his visit, although from the brooch I could see that Doctor Frodsham had arrived at the same time, so that might keep her busy). Watson politely thanked my father for all his help, but he could clearly sense that relations between us were strained.

“I should leave and let you talk”, he said, heading towards his room.

“No!” I said firmly. “You will remain, Watson. What my father has to say concerns you as much as me.”

“I hardly think that this is wise, son”, Father said carefully.

I looked pointedly at him.

“Hilton”, I said calmly. 

That should by all rights have meant nothing, but he clearly knew what I had meant. He blushed.

“He did it of his own accord”, he said. “I only found out when you told me.”

“You told him what?” Watson asked, clearly confused.

“My brother Hilton has long held the ambition that if he can find evidence of wrongdoing against one or more of his fellow siblings”, I said, “then they would be disinherited and he would obtain a larger share of the family estate. He therefore paid our brother Guilford to take rooms in this establishment to spy on us. And if he did not find anything, to plant evidence and then 'find' it.”

Watson stared at Father in shock. I glanced at the clock and smiled slightly. Father caught my look and paled.

“Oh”, he said heavily.

“Anna has permission to pass the relevant information on to Mother on the hour”, I said sourly. “I do not think even the normally obliging London bookmakers would offer odds on her reaction being a good one. As you know, Hilton 'just happens' to be visiting the house this evening, so perhaps if the wind is in the right direction we might hear the screams.”

Both Father and Watson winced as the clock began to strike. It completed every stroke but barely; the last one was just fading when the door to our room burst open and an irritatingly familiar figure burst in. My prankster brother Guilford, looking rather less pristine than in our sole brief encounter at the Plaza Hotel. His clothes were for him very untidy and, more significantly, his face and hands were covered in virulent yellow and purple blotches. He looked at us in horror.

“Father!” he blurted out.

He looked briefly (and guiltily, I noticed) at me, then hurried over to Watson. 

“They say that you are a doctor”, he said urgently. “Please, you have to take a look at me!”

“Sit over at the table”, my friend ordered, “and I will fetch my medical gloves so that I can examine you safely. If you have something infectious we do not wish to risk spreading it around.”

He followed the instructions and Watson went to his room to fetch his equipment. I wondered how long it would take him to work out what had actually happened. Sitting down he carefully examined Guilford's face where some of the marks were now blistering into an even deeper shade of purple. When he tentatively sniffed at one of the marks, I knew that he had got it. But would be play along? 

My friend took a deep breath, stood back and faced my brother with a suitably sombre expression, shaking his head at him. The very image of a professional preparing to deliver what could only be bad news. Yes!

“This is _very_ serious”, Watson said firmly. “In all my years of medicine it is one of the worst cases of _Inritaris Fratris Maioris_ Syndrome that I have ever come across. There is no medical treatment for this horrible and dreadful disease.”

Oh but that was good! Guilford's eyes widened in horror.

“Doctor!” he wailed. “Please!”

I had to turn away to hide my slightly shaking shoulders. Presumably Father had also understood my friend's Latin reference because he was now looking decidedly amused. This could not be better!

I had underestimated my friend.

“The good news however is that a complete change of diet is however very effective at stopping this malady in its tracks”, he said. “You must avoid any and all sweet things, most particularly confectionery, for at least six months. Preferably a whole year.”

Guilford looked like my friend had struck him. Several times!

 _“No..... sweets?”_ he gasped in horror.

“Not so much as a cough-drop”, Watson said firmly. “Just one solitary sweet could cause the current infection to spread across your whole body. I am afraid that in the advanced stages of this disease we are talking the disabling and even loss of, ahem, the male organs.”

I thought for a moment that my brother was going to have a (deserved) seizure. Fortunately for him his sufferings were brought to an end when I broke and let out a huge guffaw of laughter, then collapsed into my chair.

“Watson, you are a genius!” I snorted. _Inritaris fratris maioris?_ That is brilliant!”

“What is so funny?” Guilford demanded crossly. 

Father chuckled too but took pity on my brother.

“Guilford, _inritaris fratris maioris_ is Latin for 'irritating elder brothers'!” he explained. He looked at me and grinned. “Soap?” 

I nodded. He turned back to the pest.

“Sherlock knew who you were”, he explained, “and he must have slipped into your room to replace your usual soap with a special abrasive one which causes the skin to blister rapidly. My so-called friends used it on me once at school. Do not worry, son. It fades after twenty-four hours.”

“About as long as the powder on your flannel which made your face turn bright blue the other day”, I grinned. “Serves you right, brother.”

“I was only doing it for your welfare!” Guilford grumbled. 

“And what Hilton paid you”, I reminded him. “Cheer up. Mother will have caught up with him by now, so he will be in much the same state as you – except that all his bruises will be real ones!”

“I will keeping a closer watch on you all after this”, Father said firmly. “Go and get your things, son. I shall pay off your room out of your allowance; we will not have your landlady inconvenienced because of your and Hilton's poor behaviour. Then you can go and explain yourself to your mother.”

Guilford scowled but slouched off. Father nodded to me and followed him.

“Thank you for that, friend”, I smiled. “I thought that you might tell him the truth straight off.”

“After the way he and his family treated you?” Watson snorted. “No way! He deserved to suffer a little longer. Though I think that that is the first time I have ever knowingly lied to a patient, rather than the usual stretching of the truth.”

He poured us some coffee and we talked happily on matters familial for the rest of the evening. I did wonder just what either Guilford or Hilton had expected to find out about us such that they had not just gone straight for planting and 'finding' something at once. Odd.

MDCCCLXXXI

_Notes:_   
_1) It was later claimed that Bunthorne, the central character in the opera, was meant to represent the ultimate aesthete Mr. Oscar Wilde, but this was a retrospective application as he had not then been at all famous. Or infamous._

MDCCCLXXXI


	8. Brush Strokes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 1881. In a city of over a million souls, there is bound to be more than the odd argument. But over a broom of all things?

The Nation had been shocked that summer by the shooting of President Garfield of the United States – although he did not actually die of his wounds until September – by a disgruntled political activist who believed that he had not been rewarded sufficiently for the role he had played (a minuscule one) in the president's recent election victory. The killer was hung the following year; I thought that what with the dispatch of President Lincoln, American politics seemed rather too rough compared to our own. One did not shoot people merely because one had a disagreement with them.

I said as much to Watson, and the rogue asked just when Randall was next coming round. Worse, I could not even stare reprovingly at him because I had been thinking exactly the same! My friend was a terrible influence on me!

MDCCCLXXXI

When Great Britain had finally defeated Napoleonic France back in 1815, it had been a victory not just for freedom over tyranny but for the generally free trade approach of London over the restrictive and mercantilist¹ practices of Paris. That had brought a general increase in wealth, but as always the gap between those at the top and bottom of society only ever seemed to increase. Nowhere was this demonstrated more in the peculiar job, largely defunct in our own automotive era, of the crossing-sweeper. 

The late Victorian age was of course that of the horse-drawn vehicle, which meant that streets were always dirty with dust and.... political promises (sometimes I wonder at the generous and forgiving nature that makes me keep certain medical acquaintances around!). A crossing-sweeper would take up his station near a busy crossing with their broom and sweep the road clear ahead of a rich lady and/or gentleman who would then tip them – always a pittance, of course) – when they had made it safely to the opposite pavement without stepping in anything or anyone unpleasant. 

It will be understood therefore that the busiest crossings were as hotly sought after as the prime begging posts in the capital, and scuffles between crossing-sweepers were common. It was just another part of London life, but when the affable fellow who patrolled near Cramer Street was set upon and badly beaten, I decided to take action.

MDCCCLXXXI

Our local crossing-sweeper was a short, unprepossessing fellow by name of Mr. Peter Love, a name Watson tells me was once born by a moderately infamous pirate² around the start of the seventeenth century. Our resident crossing-sweeper could hardly have looked less like a pirate if he had tried! He was short, red-headed, a few years older than both of us and had a face that looked like it had been badly drawn by a child. But he was a decent fellow and Watson had treated his wife one time (free, of course), so we were both concerned worried at what had befallen him.

“I've no idea, doctor”, Mr. Love said as Watson started on another bruise. “Three of them just came at me and said this was their patch now. I was stupid enough to stand my ground, much good it did me.”

“You work at the junction with Moxon Street do you not, Love?” I asked. 

The fellow nodded.

“What with the work they're doing knocking down those houses across the road from you, sir, people cross at the top to avoid the dust”, our battered guest said. “It was a pretty good patch but I shall have to find work elsewhere now, if I can.”

_(The observant reader will be able to work out that one of those houses set to be demolished was 'Manor House', home of the unfortunate Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams whose case had resulted in a very small degree of embarrassment for one of us who may or may not have been of the medical persuasion. After the explosion caused by his experiments with certain potions (and certain consequences arising thereof which I had most certainly not smirked over as that would have been quite wrong³), the place had seemed to have survived, but the later study which I had mentioned as due back then had showed that it had been left in a structurally poor state and the decision had been taken to condemn the whole row. It was perhaps fortunate for Doctor Adams and his fellow residents as a recent change in the law compelled the authorities to pay the full price for their properties and they were all able to find places elsewhere in the city. However it also made for a noisy time for us across the road as the work-men moved about their business)._

“Did you get the same people every day, Love?” I asked.

“Mostly I do, sir”, he said. “Some of them can be right up themselves if I don't sweep fast enough for their pleasure or get too close to their nice clean clothes. It's a difficult balance.”

“We shall definitely take an interest in this matter”, I said. “Your 'pitch', Love, was not among the most lucrative in the capital, especially with Marylebone High Street just over the back. Unless someone is for some reason trying to establish a monopoly of sweeping up before rich people – and in a city this size, there may indeed be people that strange! – there may be rather more to it. Here.”

I wrote something on a card and handed it to our visitor.

“That is my brother Carl's address”, I told him. “I know that he has a reputation for being about as approachable as Mount Everest in a storm, but he is always looking out for reliable men to do odd jobs around his barracks. It is not much but it would provide you with an income while you are looking for something permanent.”

Mr. Love looked surprised but took the proffered card.

“Thank you, sir!”

MDCCCLXXXI

Later I took Watson to the north end of Cramer Street, where the general quietness of the area only served to reinforce my point about our friend being targeted. This was definitely a backwater among London streets, while we were within sight of the busy Marylebone High Street that ran parallel to (and whose houses backed onto) Cramer Street. I knew that they had several crossing-sweepers there as I often came back that way on my walks, so anyone wishing to secure such a post would surely have gone after one of them. Unless there was something special about this area so close to our home?

Mr. Love's replacement was at his post at the junction with Moxon Street, broom at the ready and with a scowl that could have probably swept the road even without one. He was a huge, muscular fellow, and I frowned when he saw him. 

“I should have asked Mr. Love for help in this”, I said. “I need a fuller understanding of just who uses this area on a typical day; also that would enable me to pay him for drawing up such a list. Watson, could you go round to his house and ask for me? You could also check up on his children while you are there.”

My friend nodded and set off to Lisson Grove. I decided to survey the whole area and see if there was anything obvious that might have caused our client's problems.

MDCCCLXXXI

I very generously did not smirk when Watson was able to fill in further details of a surprisingly large number of people who Mr. Love had recorded in his day's observing his old post. Considering how he hardly ever looked at the society-pages that was quite a achievement.

I still got a suspicious look when I thanked him for his help, though.

“Here is something rather odd”, he said as he scanned down the list of the great and the good who had been through this part of Marylebone. “Lady Butler crossed there.”

I looked confusedly at him.

“Why is that odd?” I asked.

“She is known as False Dawn”, he smiled, “because she wears so much make-up that no-one is sure what she really looks like. She has a most distinctive black hat and always wears something red; she got very cross one time the 'Times' cartoonist portrayed her as a witch and threatened to sue, but nothing came of it. From Mr. Love's description it must have been her, yet I know that she lives in Manchester Street because she always tells everyone that whether they ask for it or no.”

I could see his point there. At that time the Gardens that lay between Aybrook Street (the road that ran parallel to but immediately west of Cramer Street) and Manchester Street were not open to the public, so there was no reason for that woman to have gone such a long way round to get here. Let alone that her sort would have certainly taken a cab, even for so short a journey.

“She would have had no business crossing Moxon Street”, I said. “Are you sure that it was her?”

“I can show Mr. Love a picture of her to check”, he said. “She is always in the newspapers, worse luck.”

“You mean in the society-pages?” I smiled teasingly.

He pouted at that. I had no idea why, as I was quite correct.

MDCCCLXXXI

Mr. Love confirmed that it was indeed Lady Butler that he had seen and I very generously bought my friend a large bar of that new milk-chocolate to say sorry for teasing him. Which left two questions; what was one of the snootiest women in London (see under Contests For Which There Was Fierce Competition) doing up what was pretty much a dead-end, and was it connected in some way to Mr. Love's recent attack?

“He was not sure, but our friend thought that the woman may have come out of Garbutt Place”, I said. “But what can she possibly have been to see there? It is a very short road and only has a couple of factories as far as I know.”

I thought for a while.

“This attack on our friend”, I said eventually. “Did Lady Butler actually cross the road that day?”

“Yes”, he said, “and not long before the attack. Mr. Love was sure about that. He thought it had been about an hour before; he was not keeping a close watch on the time.

“There does not seem to be any motive”, I frowned. “Perhaps we need to be a little more creative in teasing one out.”

MDCCCLXXXI

A few days later we had a visitor to Cramer Street. A smartly dressed young lady called Miss Henrietta Secombe.

“Miss Secombe is that rare thing, a female journalist”, I told Watson as we all sat down. “I sent her round to interview Lady Butler to see if we might find a reason for her involvement in the attack on our friend.”

“And did I ever!” the lady said firmly, accepting a cup of tea. “I had thought that my fellow journalists were bad, but after interviewing that woman I had to go home and take a long hot bath! She was terrible!”

“Did you find out anything?” Watson asked.

“I am afraid that I did”, she said. “Indeed, when she said it to me I had to ask her to repeat it; I was so shocked. And I work with Men!”

I should perhaps have been insulted, but then nearly all journalists those days _were_ men, although regardless of their gender they ranked down alongside politicians, lawyers and sewage-workers as things that I supposed we needed in a modern society. For some reason.

“Brace yourselves”, our visitor said. “She did not of course admit to any role in the attack, but when listing people who she thought London would be far better off without, one of the first that she named was your crossing-sweeper friend – _because he had looked at her in the wrong way!”_

We both stared at her incredulously. I had heard many strange things in my time but this was definitely up there with the best. Or down there with the worst.

“Precisely how _should_ he have looked at her?” I asked.

“I would hazard 'with due reverence and awe while bowing, scraping, and tugging his forelock”, she said wryly. “I had told her that this was just an article for my college work and that it would likely never be published.”

I smiled at her slight evasion. She would clearly go far in her profession, even if she was looking at someone who was not a medical personage with something that was dangerously close to a simper. And Watson's cough seemed to have returned for some reason.

“It should be easy to find now we know”, I said, not even getting close to a smirk. “I shall ask around and we shall soon have the three roughs who assaulted our friend. I think that once they realize that the alternative is a long spell inside one of Her Majesty's least pleasant gaols, they will talk.”

MDCCCLXXXI

Indeed they did. In fact they sang like the proverbial canaries, and all to the great discomfort of one Lady Dawn Butler. It emerged that the reason for her visits to the area were because she had purchased a factory where they were breaking just about every law on worker protection (of which there were few enough anyway) and she was making sure that she got the maximum amount of money out of her investment regardless of how many 'little people' got hurt or injured in the process. That and her admission that she had ruined a man for 'looking at her in the wrong way' was social ruination, and Miss Secombe's article on the whole thing was published in the 'Times' itself. 'False Dawn' decided that a sudden holiday at her family’s cottage in the south of France might be advisable, and wisely that holiday became a permanent stay. 

Mr. Love did not return to his crossing-sweeper job as Carl was able to find him a permanent job at his barracks which paid much better than his old job and, dare I say it, with infinitely better people. Indeed my brother was also able to find work for both of Mr. Love's sons, one there and another at a second barracks in the capital. A happy ending all round, at least for those who deserved it.

MDCCCLXXXI

_Notes:_   
_1) A disproven but somehow still widely held belief that there is only a fixed amount of wealth in the world. Its deadly implication was that for a country to become richer some neighbouring country had to become poorer, thus providing another motivation for war. Technological and scientific progress has shown the idea to be bunkum, but in this day and age that is no longer enough to put a stupid idea out of everyone’s misery._   
_2) He was betrayed by a rival, then captured and executed in 1610. Curiously he had been born in Lewes, East Sussex, not far from where Sherlock and John would one day retire to._   
_3) Ahem!_

MDCCCLXXXI


End file.
